Battle on the Mud - Flight

Northern Middenland

Battle Duration: 4.5 hours

—

It was a low rumbling sound. Like thunder in the distant skies. But close, intimate. And far more dangerous. Dangerous, but not indiscriminately. This sound wasn't in the distant skies, wasn't a far-away rumble of thunder. It wasn't in the skies. It was on the ground, closing fast—a cavalry charge. But no horses galloped this way. No banners fluttered above lances. This was the charge of aggradons.

Preda leaned into the motion, the rhythm so familiar it was almost a comfort—even in danger. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was riding for the joy of it.

But he was a saurus. His lot in life was to fight and kill for the Great Plan. To defend it. With his life, if that was what it took. And Preda had no problem with that. That was the true comfort for Preda, that knowledge of his purpose. He knew his place in the world. He knew why he existed.

For a moment, brief as it was, the sound seemed to fade away. Like existence itself held its breath in the eager anticipation of the next few seconds.

Preda tightened his grip upon his sabre and braced himself.

His aggradon mount leapt—launched himself the last few metres, flying through the air, all snarling teeth and razor-sharp claws. Landed amidst the Chaos warriors, crescent talons eviscerating one warrior, while another warrior found his head within the raptor's maw, jaw clamping down with force enough to buckle the helmet. A third warrior was felled by a thrust of Preda's sabre to the neck, the height advantage of sitting upon a large aggradon more than enough to allow him to aim that stab without any hindrance from the Chaos warrior's gorget.

Around Preda, his fellow cavalry-saurus landed from their own charged leaps. The violence was brutal, primal—but tempered by training and experience. Even in the heat of slaughter, the aggradons heeded their riders—trained not to lose themselves to bloodlust, but to kill with purpose. A nudge of a knee here and the aggradon would turn away from whatever had its attention, a click of the tongue there and the aggradon would direct its aggression to a different target, trust forged through long bonding having the raptors believe that their riders knew best.

An ironclad gauntlet rose in a vain attempt at defence. That hand was swiftly removed as fangs tore into it—ripped it free of the arm it had been attached to. Another warrior tried to angle his halberd to fend off the large raptor charging him. It was a futile effort—its rider struck first, a swift kick disrupting the warrior's stance before he could even raise his weapon properly. The warrior had no time to recover before the aggradon's claws finished what its rider had started.

The Chaos warriors had been focused on butchering the retreating infantry when the aggradon cavalry struck. Unwittingly, they had trapped themselves against the rock—leaving the saurus riders to play the hammer. Empire halberdiers made for a very dangerous rock for the Chaos forces to be slammed against.

Chaos reigned among the warriors of Malice. Some turned, raising shields against the charging cavalry. Others braced for the wall of steel ahead. None could do both.

Do they stand against the disciplined wall of halberds and bayonets, steel tips aimed at their throats? Or do they turn to the snarling raptors, with riders ready to cut them down?

Despite the moment going in their favour, Preda was keenly aware that it was a temporary state. This was but a single band of the ruinous warriors, more would come—soon. And the Malice warriors had cavalry of their own.

They needed to finish this skirmish quickly. The infantry had to reach the hill. And Preda had to ensure they made it—by leading the aggradon cavalry against the Chaos riders who would try to cut them down.

Fortunately, Preda's cohort wasn't the only one working to protect the retreat. Overhead, a terradon swooped past. Seconds later, an explosion thundered through the Chaos ranks—the rider had dropped another grenade into the gathering of ruinous warriors. That wouldn't last long. Terradon riders rarely carried many grenades—they weren't meant for frontline battle. But Preda was thankful for what they did carry. Explosions deep within one's ranks always had the same effect—turning cohesion into chaos.

But not the kind of chaos that the Ruinous thrived on—despite the name.

Preda's sabre felled another warrior, its keen edge finding flesh, cutting him down in a single stroke as his mount tore into another foe. This clash of warriors was coming to its end, The infantry were already turning away, resuming their withdrawal, leaving Preda and his saurus to cut down the remaining stragglers.

He took a moment to survey the battleground, took note of where the hordes of Chaos warriors were, and more importantly, where their cavalry was. His eyes locked onto a band of Chaos knights, riding a small distance away. Knights with actual horses, unlike the apparently far more common daemonic pillbugs that this warhost favoured.

That was fine. Horses made for good meat for the aggradons.

#

Captain Yen'ayes scowled down the hill, assessing the fighting retreat below. He gave a silent thanks to Yackl for having alerted him that going to the farmhouse would have been pointless. He preferred the hill anyway.

Though unlike the suggestion passed on from Preda, Yen hadn't moved to the peak of the hill, but formed up the regiment under his command upon the sloped inclines. Saurus armed with spears formed a perimeter around the rest of the regiment, while the skink musketeers stood in staggered lines at different elevations, all lined in such positions that they could see over the heads of those in front of them. Even if the thralls of Chaos reached the saurus walls, it wouldn't be shield enough to spare them the gunfire.

Behind the musketeers, Yen repositioned the small number of bastiladons and infantry from the hilltop, integrating them into his regiment to bolster both numbers and firepower.

Between the bastiladons, a crate of musket ammo sachets. The skinks from the farmhouse would no doubt need more ammunition. Yen would provide it, allowing them to hold the newly drawn line—like a scaly St Nicholas, delivering gifts to the noble and righteous while striking down the wicked.

Allowed himself a small chuckle at that mental image. The Empire would probably have something to say if he actually voiced such thoughts. Likely nothing good, what with defensive warmbloods got regarding what they considered "theirs".

Yen huffed, fingers tapping an irregular beat on the hilt of his sabre. Though a captain, Yen never relished command. His true passion lay in teaching—drilling skinks and saurus in the art of swordsmanship, the skill that had become a mainstay in the Legion. But like most saurus who reached a certain age, leadership found itself thrust upon him. Fortunately, he was rarely needed to act as such. As a captain, he was usually serving under somebody else—typically Colonel Solin—so he rarely needed to command more than a cohort or two. But then, battles like today's happened, and Yen was forced to step into the role of leader for a force, of which he had likely tutored at least half in swordsmanship and fencing.

As a saurus, his ultimate duty was clear. As an individual, he wished he could just be the teacher, to live through the successes of his students.

But the Old Ones had their plan, and as much as he might wish that he never had to set foot upon a battlefield, this was where he was needed.

He closed his eyes for five slow seconds. Inhaled. Held it. Then exhaled, expelling hesitation, doubt—anything unnecessary for the fight ahead.

End of the day, he was a saurus Scar-Veteran. He knew his duty. He would fight. Win. Prevail.

Mind clear of distraction, he refocused on the retreat below. Preda's cavalry was doing a good job of disrupting the efforts of the thralls of Chaos to run down the retreating infantry. It also helped to tell Yen that the retreat wasn't from a broken force, morale shattered. The infantry fell back in as good an order as the circumstances allowed, their focus sharp on approaching threats. Halberds turned into a bristling wall, warding off the warriors of Malice.

It improved their odds of surviving long enough to reach Yen, their ability to turn themselves into a rock upon which Preda could be a hammer.

Yen's gaze shifted from the retreating force to the seething mass of Chaos warriors. His regiment had been noticed. Unlike the retreating infantry, the enemy surged forward, unburdened by repeated attacks. The Chaos warriors split themselves, forming multiple war-bands.

Must be a handful of leaders within that mass, to break apart so cleanly. Not perfectly—some warriors hesitated, uncertain which mass to join—but by Chaos standards, it was almost disciplined. Especially since there did not appear to be any arguments or confusion about which way each would start to move. They divided, and they all moved in different directions, but with the same destination.

They were coming. From different angles, with different leaders, but one goal—him.

Well, aside from the ones still chasing the retreat, Yen conceded.

Four war-bands. Four angles of attack—if he counted the one still pursuing the retreat. He never assumed the war-band veering away was retreating. They were trying to circle around, crest the hill, and strike from behind. But Yen had chosen his ground well. Even if they reached the peak, the slope was too sheer for a direct descent. They'd have to move at an angle until level with his position—turning their attack from a rear strike into a flank assault instead.

No downhill charge for Chaos. Not today.

His fingers drummed a steady beat against the hilt of his sabre. Even with his mind clear, a measure of something remained—not quite impatience, not quite tension, but the weight of waiting for battle to begin.

That moment when all anyone could do was wait. Wait for the charge. Wait for the enemy to come into range. Wait for them to break.

Yen never believed for a second that Chaos warriors would be wise enough to break at the sight of a prepared foe. Their sheer numbers had already proven enough to overrun opponents—hence the infantry's retreat from the farmhouse.

No, Chaos needed more persuasion than a disciplined battle line in their path. Chaos needed blood. Violence. Something to rattle them.

Not that Yen would ever complain about killing Chaos warriors. Their lives were forfeit the moment they gave themselves to the Ruinous Powers. The Legion's duty was to put such wretches down.

A blink. Or it felt like one. But when he looked again, everything was closer. Nearly time. Another blink. Closer still.

Close enough. Yen drew his sabre, the blade sliding free. He was ready.

The fight was here.

Inhale. Exhale. Open mouth. 'Fire!'

At his hissed command, the musketeers fired.

#

Yeucan cursed softly, slipping on the slick mud, the frantic footsteps of everybody in front of him having churned the ground. Was spared a faceplant when the human behind him grabbed his shoulder and steadied him before the sliding of his feet could tilt him to the point of no return. Mumbled his appreciation, quickly adjusted the musket in his grasp and continued to move.

Some distance away, thunder cracked, but not with the fury of the sky, but with the regular rhythm of volleyed gunfire. Yeucan couldn't see past the crowd of his fellow soldiers before him, but if he was to make a guess, the reinforcements at the hill had begun to secure their position. He hadn't been able to see who the commanding element of the reinforcements was, but with any luck, they were smart enough to use their position to good effect.

Hills were the unsung heroes of many a battle. A good solid place to plant oneself down and refuse to budge. Good for gunfire as well.

'Right!'

At the shout, everybody halted, turned in the direction called out and braced, halberds and bayonets aimed for the coming charge. It would never be as solid a spear wall as if they hadn't been moving, but it would do. It had to do. There wasn't much else that they could do in this situation. Brace against attacks, become a wall upon which Preda and his cavalry would hammer the enemy against.

One would have thought that the warriors of Chaos would have learnt after a few repetitions of this exact sequence of events. But then, Yeucan recalled that there was a saying about insanity that described this same pattern. And nobody ever accused the thralls of Chaos of being sane.

Yeucan felt it the moment the Chaos warriors slammed into their wall of blades. The entire formation shuddered, like a fortress struck by a battering ram. Yeucan pushed his shoulder against the human that would have backstepped into him, lending him some extra strength to remain unwavering against the pressure applied to the bladed bastion.

Screams of anger and fury, not all of which was from the warriors of Malice, but replies from those being struck at. War was bitterness and hatred, and Chaos was always an acceptable target of such rage, a victimless recipient of the worst emotions that could be levied at anybody.

Step. Step.

Slowly, the block of men and skinks pushed back against the Chaos warriors—refused to be static and idle. Even if their best defence was to hold until the hammer could come down, pride decreed that they still fight with everything they had, to not rely on the incoming charge.

Step. Step.

A squelch of mud. Yeucan twisted his head, looked over his shoulder. Cursed softly, then louder.

'Behind!'

At his shout, the back half of the block turned fully around, bracing weapons.

Maybe Chaos wasn't quite so insane then, to have decided to mix up their play somewhat this time. To try and hammer and anvil the retreating force instead of constantly being the ones to suffer it.

Yeucan felt his arms shake, vibrating from the force of which the Chaos horseman ran into the bayonet at the end of his musket. He would have been bowled over if not for the same human he'd braced moments earlier. Still felt an agonising ache in his limbs from the force, fingers rapidly numbing.

The warhorse screamed—a horrible, snarling sound—its eyes burning with fury, as if it blamed Yeucan for its rider's mistake. Yeucan hissed back, twisted his musket—twisting the blade still buried in flesh—before ripping it free and driving it straight through the beast's eye. The horse convulsed, then toppled, taking its rider with it. The rider was cut down by a halberd before he could recover.

Yeucan acknowledged that he had gotten lucky, could have easily been crushed beneath that horse. Probably should have been. The horse must have slowed before it had reached him, but not enough to avoid impaling itself. Had still had enough force in its momentum that Yeucan could now barely lift his weapon, the strange mixture of ache and numbness engulfing his limbs, but it hadn't been able to slow itself enough to avoid running into the bristling line of pointed steel.

But Yeucan was not representative of everybody who had been at the front of that flank. Humans and skinks alike were crushed beneath the charge of the large warhorses, slammed to the ground and trampled, or cut down by the over-sized axes of the riders before those behind the front line were able to retaliate.

Heaved out a breath, fought against the leaden weights now pulling at his arms, and lifted his musket back into position and lunged forward, stabbing the bayonet into another Chaos warrior.

An explosion erupted somewhere behind the Chaos cavalry. Overhead, the terradon flew past, the skink riding the majestic creature having his finger in an obscene gesture at the now panicked Chaos horsemen.

And following the explosion, a rush of aggradons charged, leaping with tooth and claw at the ready. The Chaos cavalry charge had been halted by steel and grit, now it was ripped asunder by talons and fangs.

#

Ingwel growled lowly. The problem with command? He had to be the voice of order, reading the battle and shifting the tides through others, not his own blade.

Watching those who entrusted their lives to him fight and bleed while he stood at a distance, forced to send others in his stead? Infuriating. Even when he locked away emotion—suppressed every instinct—it burned to not be there, fighting beside his saurus and skinks with blade and claw.

Breathed in, calmed the fire within that demanded he forgo common sense and charge. Charge in which direction? He couldn't even say. To the east: troops retreated from the farmhouse, its walls collapsed, any strategic value lost. To the west: Mort fought against a Chaos champion who was managing to fight on near equal footing.

Probably a good thing that Ingwel wasn't able to see through the canopy of trees to the grove that lay at the foot of the hills, who knew how that front was faring? But at the same time, not knowing was almost as bad, let his imagination dredge up worst-case scenarios.

Moved his spyglass back to the eastern front. Hummed in unheard approval as the latest charge against the retreat was driven back. Captain Preda, as ever, struck like a viper—always at the rear, always where the enemy least expected. An anvil of flesh and steel. Cold? Some might think so. Necessary? Absolutely. The cavalry was too few, the Chaos warriors too many. Preda couldn't stop them all, but he could make sure they broke against the infantry instead of overrunning them. Outside of those decisive hammer-and-anvil strikes, he still cut down Chaos troops wherever he could—though some managed to slip past, only to face the hunting aggradons.

It wasn't as if Preda wasn't striking at any Chaos troops outside of those moments. The hammer and anvil moments were those that slipped past the hunting aggradons.

Shifted his attention slightly, took in Yen's position on the hilltop and rumbled in approval. A good solid position with good firing angles. A small bastion where the retreating troops could recover from their flight and regroup. Assuming that the retreat reached Yen's position.

Ingwel had faith that they would.

Looked back toward the bulk of the Chaos warhost, aligned the spyglass with the warlord in charge. He studied this pristine white form that was borderline regal and not at all like one would expect a Chaos champion to look. With colour and heraldry, he could have passed for a Bretonnian paladin—proud, regal, heroic. Where a noble house's sigil should have been, the dreaded star of Chaos leered back. His sword did not shimmer with the Lady's grace but pulsed with something far fouler—black, jagged, and needle-sharp, it looked like the stinger of some monstrous hornet.

For a moment, the Chaos warlord paused, his head tilting ever so slightly—almost as if he sensed he was being watched. Then, just as quickly, he turned away, gesturing to a lesser warrior. His head moved subtly, the way one does when speaking, though from this distance, no words could be heard.

There was a sound of surprise from behind him. Ingwel lowered the spyglass, was about to turn to address whoever had made the sound, but the moment his vision was no longer locked to the view gifted by the brass tube, he could see what had caused that surprise. From that wooded grove, a sudden burst of red light shot through the canopy, a lance of fire streaking into the sky. Against the pale afternoon sun, it burned like a bloodstain in the heavens, vivid and impossible to ignore. For a moment, it lingered—then it dimmed, leaving only a faint trail of smoke curling in the breeze.

'Damn,' Ingwel cursed in saurian.

There was no need for him to make any commands, for the presence of that flare had been planned for in advance. The knight of the White Wolf had commented on that plan, given it a fitting term.

Scorched earth.

Fitting. Because that was exactly what was about to happen.

#

Yen listened to the choir of gunfire, twisting his head around to stare impassively at the Chaos warriors who had clambered awkwardly down the hill. As he had predicted, they'd been forced to angle their descent in such a way that they hadn't been able to strike at the rear but instead side-on.

Admittedly, he hadn't predicted their attack angle perfectly. His skink musketeers had adjusted their lines hurriedly—not ideal, but not disastrous. Even without repositioning, they still fired from a position of strength. But with the numbers against them like this? Every little detail that could tip the balance of power in Yen's favour was going to be taken into account and used to best effect.

The real problem? The Chaos warriors were nearly level with Yen as they charged. No way to stack musket lines from elevation—not really. Had to treat those Chaos warriors and cavalry as if they were fighting on open ground.

Ah well. At least it's only the one band and not all four of them, Yen hummed, seeking that silver lining and finding it. Better to have only a portion of the Chaos force fighting on as close to equal footing as they could get, rather than all the Chaos force.

Another volley of gunfire cut a bloody path through the Chaos warriors. Further down the hill, a second line of skink muskets fired, this time aiming down the slopes at the first warband to reach them—the ones who had abandoned clever manoeuvres in favour of a direct charge at Yen's position. That warband had quickly learnt the folly of trying to charge uphill against a wall of spears and muskets.

So far, none of the warriors of Chaos had managed to break through that wall. The saurus warriors were quite adept at stabbing at anything that came within reach, and had strength enough to puncture armour. Meanwhile, muskets were the great equaliser in warfare, didn't need strength to puncture armour, just point and shoot. And that was exactly what the skinks carrying those lethal weapons did, firing down the hill into the mass of armoured warriors, bullets punching through hellforged armour.

'Where's the retreating battalion?' Yen asked aloud, craning his neck to find the topic of his question. He'd lost track of them after the initial clash with Chaos warriors, had to focus on the immediate threat rather than the trials of his allies.

A nearby skink pointed. 'Over there. Looks like they've circled some to get around the warriors who reached us before they did.'

Yen stared in the motioned direction, easily spotting the block of retreating infantry. At the skink had said, they were slightly off-position than if they'd made a direct line for Yen, which would have had them fighting through a mass of Chaos warriors blocking their path.

Though how much of their detour was intentional, and how much of it was because they'd been attacked and it had thrown their path off-kilter? Yen couldn't say. Wasn't important anyway—they were still making their way toward him, still being helped by Preda's cavalry.

A nearby bastiladon rumbled, the cannon mounted atop its shell firing. The shot blasted through Chaos warriors, but they weren't the target. The real mark—a hulking, mutated troll—let out a guttural roar as the cannonball detonated in its face. It clawed at the bloody ruin where half its skull had been. It might not have been a salamander shot, but the explosion should have had enough heat to it that the regeneration should be slowed for a moment.

And even if it wasn't enough, the troll was more occupied with being in pain than it was with charging the saurus lines.

Another volley from behind. Yen ignored it, instead turned his attention to the Chaos warband that had yet to reach him, the one that seemed to have taken its time, wasn't even nipping at the retreating infantry's heels.

In Yen's opinion, if any of the four warbands were to break Yen's position, it would be them. They were smart enough to not exhaust themselves before reaching the fight. Would be fresh and ready while everybody else exhausted themselves.

For a moment, he wished he had a spyglass at hand. But then another chorus of gunfire pulled him from those thoughts. He refocused his attention, took in the flanking force trying to push forward despite the gunfire and the spear blocking their path.

'Captain!'

At the call, Yen turned to the skink, who was pointing to the west. Yen followed the skink's finger and cursed softly at the sight of the red flare over the grove.

'That's a bad sign,' he mumbled to himself.

'Do we answer or does Major Boney?'

'Both.' Yen answered sourly. Then, louder: 'Bastiladon crews! Load salamander shots—fire on the grove! Burn it to the ground! And pray to whatever Old One listens that our spawn-kin make it out in time.'

He turned his attention back to the Chaos warriors. No time to think about the fact that the defence in the grove had failed. Failed to the point that the only answer was to turn that grove into an inferno to temporarily stay any Chaos advance from that direction, and even after, there would be no cover for an advancing force.

But the grove being gone would also remove any camouflage regarding the Legion's numbers. Once the flames died, there'd be no more shadows to hide behind. No more illusions of strength. Anyone with eyes would see the truth—just how badly outnumbered the Legion really was.