Down But Good...

[Walter]

The dynamics of the situation were obvious to all.

Their force had the advantage of numbers. The Grenadiers had rifles, Jarl toted a handcannon. They had the firepower to reduce a more conventional pair of adversaries to meat and bone. These enemies, however, had an advantage of their own.

The shades were insubstantial, mere splotches of dread, adrift on the wind. The flintlocks they toted glinted beneath an unseen sun. The antique costumes they were attired in stirred in spectral wind. They floated inches or feet above the waves, or dipped their boots in the water, leaving no ripples. Bullets would pass through such apparitions as they would fog or smoke, inflicting no harm. No weapon, save one that was enchanted, would find purchase upon the Cryxian monstrosities.

"I've heard of such blights" whispered Jarl. "They materialize when they fire. We need to draw them into firing first." He hunkered down behind a bit of rotted fence as he spoke, though there wasn't nearly sufficient cover. They had advanced in a body down to the water's edge, and now hung there, impaled by their own reluctance, unwilling to retreat and leave the refugees, but unable to advance into unreturnable gunfire.

Sansa snorted, "Figures." she said. Jardon motioned for the pair to hush, and carefully considered the situation. The enemy had not, even now, altered their deployment to reflect an awareness of the newly arrived Ordic unit. They continued to orbit the strip of land, one always facing each bank, disdaining even to present all of their weapons on his warriors.

One of the refugees was gesturing fervently, trying to attract his attention, and he gave it to him. The man was a Cygnaran soldier, or at least had been. From the torn and bloodied state of his garments he wasn't doing much fighting any more, deserter perhaps, or simply a casualty. His dishevelment had let him blend right in with the refugees, but now that he spoke Jardon examined him carefully.

He had the look of one of the legendary Rangers of the Cygnaran Reconnaissance service. His leathers were torn and stained a deep crimson, but he didn't look to have been critically wounded. His gaze was level and sane, if somewhat harried by his present circumstances. He had a narrow face, and wore the symbol of Morrow at his throat.

"My partner" the man called. As he spoke he indicated one of the bodies sprawled on the bridge, a man in the distinctive uniform of the Cygnaran Gun Mages. At the sound of his voice one of the shades stopped it's menacing circuit, and crouched to draw, bony fingers wriggling over the grips of its firearms. The Ranger fell silent, and after a moment the specter resumed its previous motion.

Jardon considered. The Gun Mages were well known for their enchanted pistols. If he could get to that weapon and draw it he could take the first shot against the enemy. He examined the corpse strewn span of bridge. It just wasn't doable. There was no cover, no way to advance that distance while taking gunfire from an alert adversary, much less a pair.

"Boss" Sansa hissed, pointing. He saw what had drawn her attention. On the other side of the little island a mother had picked up her child, and was edging through the throng towards the other bridge. Perhaps she thought that the appearance of soldiers meant that the enemy would lose interest in her. Maybe her nerves had just broken. For whatever reason, their time had run out.

He took a deep breath, and stepped onto the bridge.

[Walter]

One Step.

He took it with dread, imagining phantom bullets shattering his flesh. He turned his head as he took the stride, looking wildly from the left wraith to the right. He definitely had their attention. The nearer of the two moved it's hands into the classic gunfighter draw position, bony fingers flexing menacingly, inches from the handles of its flintlock.

Two Steps.

He took the second without really meaning two, distracted by the yells from the bank behind and his careful scrutiny of the enemy. They were making an awful clamor behind him, but over the noise he heard Jarl organizing a firing line. He blessed the man. That must be why the Cryxians hadn't started shooting yet. They'd take the squad's return volley as soon as they materialized.

Three Steps.

He discarded that explanation for the enemy's hesitation as he looked into what passed for the further one's eyes. There was no fear therein. These creatures were beyond such considerations. They were waiting for one reason. They were toying with him. In an instant that would change. They would draw, fast as anything, the bullets would speed to his heart and they'd rip his soul from him. He'd be one more victim, another quick meal in a deathtime that need never end.

Jardon shook his head, fighting off the mesmerizing gaze. Had that been the thoughts of the adversary, or had he just been imagining it? His situation was enough to make any man's mind play tricks.

Four Steps.

With deliberation he took his next stride. He began to pray, quietly and with a calm he was far from feeling. His faith was all he had left at this point. He did not hesitate in his prayer when he saw the last wraith turn fully to him, when he saw it's fingers begin the same pre-draw dance.

Five Steps.

His foot touched the corpse of the gunmage. The spectres hands touched the handles of their weapons.

[Walter]

As Jardon bent forward, hands reaching for a pistol he'd never grasp, he kept his eyes on the closer of the two Pistol Wraiths.

With a menacing hiss the ancient flintlocks cleared their holsters. Long barrels rose, sliding menacingly towards the horizontal. It was an elaborate, menacing draw, like a child practices in the mirror when he dreams of being a gunfighter. Only an incorporeal being could perform such a ritual on a battlefield, it was the skulls and spikes of the Nightmare Empire in gesture form. Raw intimidation, for the benefit of the Wraith, to spice the soul it would consume with terror.

Jardon stopped reaching and stared down his assailant. Like hell he'd go out bending his knees before his foe. Gun probably wouldn't work anyway. He prepared himself, mentally, to jump aside as the enemy fired. He was aware that his plan, roughly stated, was to jump out of the way of the bullets. It didn't sound quite so ridiculous at the time.

The face of the shade was contorted in a sneer, its skull-like mien twisted and warped. The flintlocks rose and fixed on their target, and time seemed to stand still.

Then the Wraith rippled, a faint shriek crossing the veil and reaching Jardon's ears. A spot of absence was widening from the midst of it, expanding and eroding the rest of the creature with a startling rapidity and a frightening finality. It crumpled, as it had crumpled at its life's end. Writhing in hate and agony the creature cast about to strike down its tormentor, but the iron law of firearms had been invoked. The monster had been backshot, as it had in life, and death's long denied gates yawned before it. Struck between the shoulder blades it crumpled, a shape on the darkness, a whisper lost in the great shout of the world. With a last despairing hiss the Wraith departed Caen, and the afternoon was a little brighter.

Its partner had begun to spin at the instant it had taken the fatal shot. Its draw had none of the ceremony, none of the sadistic slow motion quality of the first Wraith's last motion. It was faster than snakes, faster than the lightning that splits the sky. The spectre had lost none of its knowledge of firearms, none of its intimate familiarity with weaponry. A lifetime of gunplay had taught it to recognize any wound, any gun. Its partner had been felled by a rifle shot, which struck before it had fired. So a sniper with a mystic weapon, using the man on the bridge as a decoy. Fine. The clarity of death focused the wraith absolutely. Toruk gaped beneath, its soul was forfeit to the void, this enforced a certain understanding.

The reload time on a rifle was too long. It spun, confident that the only weapon that could threaten its unending existence was recovering from destroying its comrade. Its flintlocks traversed the angles as its mind raced ahead. It would shoot down the backshooting dog who'd felled its ally, then the soldiers on the bank would discover why the Cryxian had chosen this area for their prison. Newly subject to gravity, following its shot, its vulnerable body would plunge beneath the waves, where it would regain its ghostly nature and emerge for more shots.

It completed the turn even as Jardon was shouting his surprise at the first ghost's fate. It stared down the barrel of a leveled rifle, emerging from a concealed hide and smoking from the previous shot. The second shot took the creature entirely by surprise, and took it between the eyes. The crumbling skull fell split and dissipating, the bony hands went slack and limp, and the second apparition followed the first into the Dragon's maw.

As the enemy faded away Jardon stood blinking on the bridge, breathing in delayed fright. So resolved had he been, so much effort had it taken to nerve himself for their bullets, that now, standing unharmed on the bridge, he felt as thought his strength had been leached away. He swayed, and remained standing only with a palpable effort. He moved his gaze from the position where one had fallen to the other's last position. His hand traced the arc of the bullets which had saved him back to the shore, where a man had appeared.

The figure picked its way down the bank towards them. The sniper was hidden in shadow, a slight and unassuming presence, indistinct save for his broad brimmed hat.

[Walter]

Jardon finished reaching down and picking up the gun. There didn't seem to be anything else to do.

As he'd half suspected, it was cracked at the midpoint. Perhaps a bullet had struck it earlier, perhaps it had been damaged in its owners fall. For whatever reason, he couldn't imagine it firing. He shivered, suddenly feeling the emotion of the moment.

It was easy to do the right thing in an instant. He had had no time for regret, confusion, or even careful thought. Now, holding the evidence, he very nearly threw up. He had been about to die. If the man on the other bank hadn't been there, his carcass would be splayed out where he was standing, even now. The refugees would still be trapped, his men would be fruitlessly shooting into the water, or, Morrow forgive him, rushing out onto the bridge to try and recover his body. He shook his head, slowly.

The civilians had begun to file towards him, several of them raising impromptu cheers, and he was obliged to back up and let them get to the bank. As he got back to the bank he realized that the cheers weren't just coming from those who had just been released, many of his troops were contributing to the general din as well. He wasn't sure exactly how many of them understood what had happened. He'd walked to the middle of the bridge, stopped, and the enemy had fallen.

He instructed Jarl to see to the needs of their rescued countrymen, and listened with half an ear to the girls' protests. Sansa was particularly vehement about it, he suspected that she was jealous that he'd thought of the lone walk onto the bridge before her. He noticed May fetching the broken weapon that the Gunmage had dropped, that'd be trouble later. Then he joined Jarl in his labors.

The refugees had only been captured for about a day, for the most part. They'd been a caravan heading to the monastary, having quickly thrown their things into wagons and left their towns. The Cryxian capture had taken place as night fell, jacks and corpses burrowing from the ground around them. They'd been escorted to the island, seemingly because the enemy's thrall creating elements were not present, or perhaps for some yet darker purpose. Vaslo (the Cygnaran), had arrived some time later with his partner, also a captive. They'd spearheaded an aborted breakout attempt earlier that morning.

Jardon listened with half an ear to the circumstances, saying the correct things and leaving things mostly to Jarl. He excused himself a moment later, and went to meet the gunman. The fellow had blended into the crowd as they crossed, and now stood motionless and silent by the edge of the bridge.

[Walter]

It was a frustrating conversation.

Jardon said "You are Morrow sent, stranger." The man said nothing. Jardon continued. "Certainly saved my hide at least." The shooter continued to stand motionless, a carved statue of a rifleman.

He was a short man, bland and unremarkable, save for an exquisite firearm and a distinctive hat. He carried himself with a remarkable stillness, moving only to accomplish a goal. His features were locked in an expressionless mask, his eyes were placid pools. The jailer had seen thralls display more animation.

"Well, what's your name, sir?" he asked, realizing that indirect queries weren't going to get him anywhere. This drew a response.

"Kell" the man grunted. His voice matched the rest of him, low and indistinct. Speaking in a crowd, it'd be swallowed up. In a hush, it'd resonate.

It was Jardon's turn to grunt. He'd heard of this man, who hadn't? Rumor had it that Kell was an assassin, a mercenary killer who'd put a bullet into anything for the right price. Unwholesome rumors put him working for the Khador side of the great war, off and on, and it was said that he kept the company of the worst of the Reds without apparent discomfort. Even in the Pit, the stories of Kell had made their way to his ears.

"Have you rediscovered your patriotism, Mr. Kell?" he asked. It occurred to him that he wasn't even sure the fellow was Ordic. Looking at him he could be from just about anywhere. There were faces like that in the streets of Cygnar, in Khador, probably even out east. "Or have you been hired to fight the Cryxers? I've heard you are a soldier for hire."

After an initial silence the man spoke again. "The latter. 4 Stars are paying bounties on Cryx kills." Jardon nodded. Once he knew who his savior was he'd realized that the assassin wouldn't have fired for nothing. It made sense that the notorious Five Fingers based criminal syndicate would move to save its base of operations. Morrow worked in mysterious ways.

There was nothing for it but to send Kell on his way. Brucker wouldn't countenance working with a mercenary fighter, it would offend his principals. Come to speak on that, there might be a problem between the Ace and the Kithslayer, now. He'd have to talk to Solomon before he did anything hasty. He laughed softly, mostly to himself. Like talking ever worked with Brucker.

He was about to tell Kell to move along when Jarl spoke up from behind him.

[Walter]

"I'd like to engage your contract, Mr. Kell" said Jarl, nervously. Jardon stood aside as the surfacer moved to speak with his rescuer. "Let's talk about rates."

The sniper nodded amiably, and the two commenced a brief haggling session. It was a revealing conversation. He'd never heard the turkey talk of the mercenary business before. It hadn't occurred to him that there might be a distinction in the manner of a commission, as opposed to merely the amounts. It was surprisingly complicated, particularly given that a ravening horde of the dead were unleashed upon the land.

He said as much, and the mercenary merely nodded, and returned to the negotiations. He was also surprised by Jarl's candor, and by the fact that the aide seemed to be negotiating on behalf of the 4* itself. Apparently Colonel Lansen had been a man of many masters. He'd met the old man once or twice, had no inkling. It was worrisome.

He left them to their disgusting arbitration, and ambled over to Bran. The jack marshal was seeing to Brucker, who seemed to be on the verge of recovery.

"Let me take over here." Bran nodded and stood back. Jardon continued. "Least I can do, seeing as I'm the one who had him thumped. Why don't you go and pick the fellow's opinions on us teaming up with that merc?" He expected Bran to head off straightaway, but the man just stood there, looking at him.

"What?" he asked. "Something on my face?" Bran shook his head, slowly.

"They're in favor, sir." He was about to question the assertion when he was interrupted. "Cryx has invaded. They're in favor of teaming up with anyone and everyone living. They'd work with the Butcher. Another gun will be welcome, whatever its wielders motivations may be."

Jardon smiled to himself. It was easy to forget the basics. He looked down at Brucker and chuckled softly. "Well, I guess you are just going to have to accept that your outvoted." The warcasters stirred slightly, but did not awaken. "Also....unconscious."

[Walter]

Brucker's assailant was now his bearer. With no more effort than it took a man to throw a shirt across his frame Tuvore hefted and hauled the unconscious Warcaster. Solomon had opened his eyes a few times, but hadn't quite recovered, and Jardon knew they couldn't wait. He'd given the orders, and they'd moved out, the purpose of their journey bouncing across the shoulders of the Trollkin renegade.

Kell had joined Jarl, or at least was located near him, to think of the assassin 'joining' didn't quite fit. He blended neatly into the column, seeming by some trick or tactic just another Grenadier, albeit one with a nicer rifle. He was fending off the questions of the men now, their curiosity aroused by the meeting with such a celebrated mercenary. Perhaps it was the fact that they'd seen him save the life of the Old Man, or perhaps it was the release from the Pit, but for whatever reason they displayed no reluctance at working with the notorious assassin. Or it might be simpler, as Bran had said, the dead were the enemy, so the living were allies.

The notion appealed to Jardon. It had the black and white that his worldview embraced, and gave him a gratifying sense of continuity with their environment. In the Pit it had always felt like death had the edge. They were basically in a giant grave, after all, and he'd felt oppressed by the endless dark. But here, in the light of day, in a pleasant Ordic wood, it was difficult to escape the conviction that life was triumphant, and would always be.

They made excellent time, the column and their accompanying refugees pressed towards the shrine with a fevered pace. They trooped through wood and glen, jogging and marching in alternating bursts, Bad Cat blazing a trail when the brush grew too thick. The pace flagged once or twice, exhaustion or simply lack of experience in overland marches taking its toll, but by and large they covered the distance.

They saw no sign of the enemy, until they reached the shrine itself.

[Walter]

The shrine still stood, it's walls unbreached and its grounds yet hallow, but it was in plain jeopardy.

The besiegers were numerous and oddly organized, drawn up not so much in units as in packs. It reminded Jardon of the natural separation of liquids. The various strains sought their like, and the glass ended up properly partitioned. So too were the foes before them, divided not by military discipline but by mutual distrust or convenience.

They had made no effort to surround the shrine, plainly confident in their ability to run to earth any that might flee out the back or sides. Their coterie was clustered before the small building, blighting the grasses and chopping idly at the trees, as their shadowed leadership sought to breach the sacred aura of the temple.

Nearest to the Pit's survivors the thralls had been parked. They stood idle, their steam power gauntlets opening and closing reflexively. One gnawed endlessly on a branch of wood, another pair wrenched at an old well. They were white, pallid things, corpses standing in defiance to all that was natural. Their fitful motion was hateful, as was their bleached skin. Jardon felt his stomache turn as memories of the Pit flooded his mind. But the thralls were least of their troubles.

Behind them were another set of thralls, but the foulness of these creatures put the gauntleted variety to shame. These were bloated, their vile flesh filled to pursting with a foul bile. Hoses had been inserted, through some necromantic cruelty unimaginable to the common man, into their guts. Before the survivors horrified gaze one of them test fired it's weapon, belching an enormous stream of acid into the air. Where the yellow liquid fell a strange steam arose, and the vegetation withered away.

A member of the next unit of the enemy's force was nearly incinerated by the burst, and it took strenuous exception. The foul trollkin barked it's displeasure, as though sufficient rage could cause even the insensate thralls to acknowledge its fury. Upon dissipating its rage the vile creature stomped back to its vile kreel. None were so large as the kithslayer, but their forms were blighted and strange, and Jardon knew they'd make a fearsome opponent.

A trio of jacks rounded out the Cryxian unit. Two were hulking things, helljacks of the same flavor that had assailed them beneath the earth. They were alert and active, plainly under the control of a warcaster, as their gazes swept back and forth across the assemblage. The green hellfire burning within their eyes flared and sputtered as their master's attention waxed and waned, but the jacks, for the moment, stood still.

In contrast to their immobility, the final jack remained in constant motion. It was a much smaller creature, one of the so-called 'bonejacks' that veterans spoke of with such dread. Gripping jaws and its powerful legs brought a predator to mind, some manner of foul hound. It wove it's way among the assembled horrors, ever in motion, jaws clacking hungrily. The lethal arc node hung ponderous and dangerous on its shoulder, perhaps the greatest danger within the assemblage.

The survivors hunkered down behind the ridge, Jardon and a few others peering over. He pondered for a moment. They had to engage, the likelihood of refugees housed within the shrine was simply too great, but he didn't like the odds. Even if they prevailed, their would be casualties, sacrifices. He wondered where the enemy's warcaster was.

A moment later he had his answer. A boom roared out from the valley beneath, as the door to the shrine burst apart in an explosion of splinters and screams, and the enemy's leader became momentarily visible, sheltered by her helljacks. From this distance he could just make out the pale frame of a Cryxian warwitch, but no further details. He opened his mouth to give the command.

Brucker's roar startled him, terror at the revealing of their position freezing him for an instant. The warcaster came awake in a great burst, eyes wide and raging, shouting oaths and imprecations. Below, the host of the Nightmare Empire reacted, heads swiveling towards the disturbance, then back towards their battlegroup. Some decision, invisible to those crouched above, was reached.

As one, the enemy started towards them.

[Walter]

The thralls surged up the hill, a wave of dead flesh and tarnished metal. They rose like a vile tide, tainting the ground beneath them and appalling the land with their loathsome presence. No cries or shouts rose from their ranks. The dead were silent, save for the trampling of their feet and the sloshing of the biles.

The irregulars advanced over the crest of the hill and towards the foe, firing their pistols, breaking the silence to pieces with the rapport of their weaponry. At Jardon's shouted command they prioritized the bile thralls, which were easier to hit anyway. It was an impressive bit of discipline, as this allowed the fighting thralls to close relatively unmolested. Unfortunately the enemy commander had seen this move coming.

The smallest jack had run up among the thralls, and now interposed it's metallic body between the pistol fire and the last pair of biles, the shots intended for them bouncing off its armored carapace. Brucker swore aloud, and the mercenary behind him, who had been taking aim at that same pair of thralls, echoed his oaths.

Brucker struck next, channeling his energies into a mighty blast, aimed at the bonejack. It veered wildly off target, however, and blasted some thralls from their feet. He also invoked the same protective enchantment that he'd cast in the dungeon,and Jardon felt himself once again imbued with a duelist's defenses.

Their wasn't time for another volley, as the thralls crossed the remainder of the distance, running in amongst the irregulars and slashing at them with their fearsome fists. Protected by Brucker's wards the majority of the unit was able to avoid the enemy's attacks, though a pair were not quite so lucky, falling prey to the enemies steam powered gauntlets.

With an ordic war cry the Grenadiers charged forward, firing their military rifles as they did so. Sansa's terse command brought them up short of entering melee range, however. The volley ripped into the thralls, felling a number. Jardon shook his head, sick with foreknowledge of the enemy's next move.

Sure enough, with the assault of the elite soldiers having scattered the fighting thralls the enemy commander put his biles into effect. The bonejack danced to one side, it's arc node flaring with hellfire as it did. A bolt lanced forth, cutting deep in Bad Cat's free hand, while the remaining biles gave a great groan and disgorged their contents all over the irregulars, popping like zits and showering them with caustic acid.

Not a man survived, even their weapons and armor were eroded away by the terrible flood. Jardon could see, here and there among them, the gleam of teeth or gemstone, but aside from that the men were simply gone. In a heartbeat they'd melted away, flaring like vapors before an annihilating force.

Kell's rifle barked, once and again, and the bonejack staggered, but its arc node remained intact, ensuring that the enemy warcaster could continue to excercise her baleful influence. The mercenary cursed once again, quietly and without force, eyes alert and scanning as he reloaded his storied weapon.

Brucker gave a woeful cry and charged forth, along with the Grenadiers, over the mangled remnants of the first clashing lines. Once again the assaulting weapons fire, this time into the enemies furious trolls. Their armor was of stouter stuff, however, and several were able to sustain bullet wounds without falling. They countercharged and a furious melee erupted.

The chaos of battle was absolute, furious trollkin strength and numbers negating the duelist's edge that the Grenadiers had been granted, and both sides cut and thrust with wild abandon on the hillside. At the center of the melee Brucker laid about him with a heavy blade, Sansa guarding his back as his energies left him. The Ace of Heroes was in his element, cursing the enemy as the monsters they were, and hewing them down into the earth.

Jardon swiveled his head wildly, for the enemy must be even now...there! He saw the Helljacks moving in. They headed towards the melee, filled to bursting with the power of their caster, ready to destroy the Ordic warcaster, and with him the heart of the living force's resistance. He screamed out a warning, but his voice vanished without a ripple into the din of the battle.

The jacks, however, met foes of their own. The old Nomad roared forth, impelled by Brucker's will, and interposed its battered form between the left Helljack and the caster. It would have been scrapped, but for Bran. The Jack marshal ran forward, interposing himself between his former charge and the oncoming soulsteel behemoth. It trampled him underfoot without a thought, his mangled carcass shirting red like a flattened watermelon. This action, however, cost it crucial momentum, and it was unable to deal appreciable damage to Bad Cat.

The other jack was met in its charge by Tuvore Kinslayer. The tormented Trollkin swept his ball and chain down upon it, once and again dealing it heavy blows with the solid weight, before it could seize him in its clawed extremities. The warwitch's focused energy surged through it, however, and at the last its arms found their prey. Jardon averted his gaze with a grimace, as the beast squeezed its assailant, then dropped him boneless to the churned earth.

Without the jack's interference, the battle of the Trolls and Grenadiers concluded, as swiftly as such things do, with the last of the trolls falling beneath Sansa's darting blade. Brucker pointed his blade at the enemy caster, and started forward, his men following.

Bad Cat struck back at the enemy helljack, clearly the beneficiary of Brucker's power. It cut four times, and the enemy engine fell still and silent, its armored form crashing to the earth with an almighty clang.

Suddenly, from behind the Cryxian forces, more war cries were heard, as the shrine's occupants poured forth. Jardon's heart leapt within him as he saw the distinctive forms of precuror knights enter the battle, lead by a champion atop an enormous warhorse. The Morrowan ran towards the enemy caster, who had remained far from the melee, and now turned.

Perhaps another of the enemy could have been slain at this time, but the resources of this foe were without limit. At a gesture from her dainty hands the living forces found themselves strangled and held by tendrils of shadow. Ordic soldiers and Morrowan guardians staggered to a stop, their flesh arrested by the grip of pure darkness. Only Jardon and Kell, high upon the ridge, were beyond her power's grip.

Far away as they were, they couldn't hear the words that passed between the witch and Solomon Brucker, as she walked forward and spoke briefly to him. An instant later and she was striding away, calm and unhurried in her majesty. Some of the soldiers fired their military rifles, the shots simply passed through the enemies form without effect. A moment more, and she was gone, the remaining members of her battlegroup running behind, trampling the heavy brush as they fled.

[Walter]

Over time, every veteran develops their own little rituals, to be used in the wake of a conflict.

Brucker passed his time among the wounded, going from man to man and expending his healing energies. A soft white glow would rise from the fallen, and their wounds mended. Under his expert ministrations even the direst of injuries could be healed, and those who had suffered them would rise to fight again. Only those who had passed to Urcaen were beyond his efforts.

Jardon spent his first moments with the dead. He busied himself dragging the slain into a space set aside for them, arranging their limbs and covering up their gorier injuries. He recognized that there was no rush, but it just felt right, that the quick should care first for the still. He muttered as he moved back and forth, voicing last rights with a heavy heart. The melted irregulars were particularly grim. There was little to mourn or beautify, a bone or two here or there.

Sansa worked with the survivors, establishing a perimeter and getting the refugees into the temple proper. She was already conferring with the leader of the Morrowan soldiers, pointing towards Brucker and the other leaders. Hers was a businesslike way, no doubt she was already planning the next fight. She'd complain bitterly if he said as much, but there was no doubt in Jardon's mind that she was the best soldier among them.

Mayet and Jarl spoke quietly together. Neither had taken part in the battle proper, and now they picked their way through its aftermath with the kind of guilty overcare that was characteristic of civilians on battlefields. They needn't have worried, no one had any energy left to resent them. Jardon made a mental note to try and get Jarl to give his handcannon to someone who'd put it to use, if he wasn't going to be up in the fight in the future.

The Grenadiers milled about, exchanging greetings with the Preceptors, and saw to Bad Cat as best they could. They each had, no doubt, their own little rituals that they'd be looking to about now, but Jardon had no leisure to discover them. He'd speak to them later, try and see how each was doing, but for the moment they'd have to look to their own devices. Lasleen had come through, she'd be a good influence on the unit.

Tuvore and Bran were past the saving, bodies mashed and mangled by the jacks they'd done battle with. Jardon paid special care to their remains. Bran was the obvious hero of the day, saving the main battle from the onslaught of a heavy jack, but Tuvore had done the same on the other flank, without Bad Cat to back him up. Whatever his tortured past, he'd died an ally of the living.

Kell sat alone. He smoked a long thin cigar. If the battle had meant anything to him, he didn't share it with anyone.

[Walter]

Brucker and the Preceptor commander, dismounted in the battle's aftermath, embraced and parted. They were obviously old friends, likely old war buddies. Jardon shook his head and headed towards them.

He came up at the same time as Jarl, both plainly intending to lend a certain military gravity to the meeting. Brucker had many virtues, but it was hard to anticipate how he'd handle any given issue that didn't involve smiting the wicked. Some tasks required a hero, others needed the precision and attention to detail that Solomon lacked.

Jardon spoke first. "Sir?" he let the question hang in the air. He wasn't entirely certain how Morrowan martial ranks progressed, precisely. The knight was clearly a man of some import, likely commander of this shrine, but his exact title eluded Jardon's recollection. Knight-Captain? Boss Man? He twisted his lips in irritation.

"Father" corrected the Morrowan, "Father-Defender Gaxxon if you want to be formal. I lead the defense of this holy place. Your arrival, Sir, was both timely and fortunate." He was a broad man, not terribly tall but not short either. Encumbered by his heavy riding plate he gave off an impression of ponderous deliberation. "Thanks for escorting Solomon back to us."

Jarl spoke up. "Father, thanks for the save. Your assault on the enemy's back turned the tide of the battle." He paused a moment, then continued. "We could use your force's assistance from now on. The enemy we face is greater than the division between church and state." He'd have gone on further, but Gaxxon was already shaking his head.

"Out of the question. Our oath is a binding one, we can not for a moment cease our defense of the sacred relic entrusted to our care." Despite his words, the Father-Defender was smiling broadly, and Brucker was also grinning like a dolt. Jardon squinted and thought for a moment. Something wasn't quite right about this. There was no way a friend of Solomon's would let some oath stop him from aiding the living against Cryx.

Jarl didn't pick up on whatever was amiss, and continued on. "What? Are you serious? We need your help man! Do you truthfully intend to...what's so funny?" He'd noticed Brucker's broad smile as well. Even Jarl, surfacer though he was, understood that Brucker wouldn't smile in the aftermath of a battle as their request for aid was denied.

It wasn't Gaxxon who answered, Jardon had figured it out. "Thamar take it, I'd forgotten how high you ranked. 413, it's your armor they are watching over, isn't it?" Both men nodded, and Jarl got it at last. "I thought their was too much force in this shrine. The Church watches its assets, eh?"

Solomon spoke then, looking out over the battlefield. "Father-Defender, if your charge was born into conflict you'd be concerned about it's welfare, yes?" Gaxxon nodded. "Your duty then, would be to accompany its bearer and assist him in the war, yes?" Another nod. "So, what you are saying, is that you are coming with us."

Gaxxon corrected him. "What I'm saying, Brucker, is that these Cryxian scum have had their own way long enough."

[Walter]

The shrine was the answer to a pressing question. Every soul in the Ordic force wanted to be on the offensive. Their unit was likely behind enemy lines, and could inflict serious damage. At the same time, however, they had the refugees from the bridge to take care of. It would have been entirely unconscionable to take them on an extended foray into the enemy's supply echelon.

The holy Morrowan ground, however, was as safe a place as could conceivably be found, and the refugees (who understood the matter and shared their protectors desire for vengeance) professed their belief in its safety. A small number of them joined the force, actually, settling into a logistics function with an ease born of peasant life. They'd have been Irregulars, actually, if any of that ill fated band had survived the battle with the Cryxian witch.

Jardon had asked Brucker about her, in the aftermath, but the former prisoner had shaken off his questions. It wasn't like him, something that she'd said had unsettled Brucker, that much was clear. Jardon spat noisily. It was likely some boast or dire threat. Solomon had been underground and in his custody for too long to have any personal matters touched upon by a stranger. Her words must have pertained to the current conflict, and there was ample to be concerned about there.

Jardon headed over to where Gaxxon and Jarl sat conferring, and squatted down beside them. They were pointing at a map of eastern Ord. It was at least somewhat up to date, and obviously composed by someone who understood the requirements of the modern military. He looked at the Father-Defender in surprise.

"Huh, wouldn't have thought you priestly types would be such skilled mapmakers".

"Well, you have to remember, we are a martial order." Gaxxon smiled blandly at this. "Maintaining readiness for an outbreak of hostilities in even the most peaceful land is somewhere in our code. Most every chapter house has such maps for their local area. It's actually a fairly common happening for enterprising mercenary bands to spend fair amounts of capitol to get their hands on one."

"I can imagine." He looked more closely at the parchment. Then he glanced back up, startled. "You've got the enemy forces on here?"

Jarl spoke up. "He said that the refugees have been pouring in here since the attack began, and he's been taking their testimony and trying to get a picture of how things stand at this point."

Jardon looked carefully at the paper now.

A moment later, he wished he hadn't.

[Walter]

The Cryxian forces spilled across the fabric in a tidal wave of black ink. With meticulous detail the brethren had plotted each sighting, each report. The resulting lines were striking in their simplicity. Once again Jardon was struck by the non-military nature of the Cryxian hordes. There was no feint, no attempt at disguising their battle plan. The enemy moved with all the subtlety and tactical flexibility of a hammer strike.

The enemy forces appeared to have divided into three main groups. The first pressed on towards Merin, a beheading strike which only slowed or stopped when confronted with force. This force was the enemy's main thrust, descriptions of it included massed heavy jacks and a strong warcaster presence. The Morrowans termed it the Axe force. Already it had trod Armandor underfoot.

The Axe force was presently engaged with the main force of the Ordic military, fighting a series of pressing engagements as they forced it back. From what Jardon could see the numbers were about even, once you accounted for the quality difference between man and thrall, and the military's withdrawal was very likely a holding action. They were likely scrounging the land for warjacks and casters, preparing for a major confrontation before the walls of Merin.

The second force was more widely dispersed, and its purpose was more difficult to see. This force had diverged from the Axe force immediately after the border breakthrough, and now swung south in a broad arc. The majority of the civilian deaths came at the hands of this force, and while it's composition seemed far lower in quality than the Axe force's they were well suited to the harvest that they now undertook. This army, labeled Scythe force on the map, spread far and wide, moving in a broad arc through the Ordic breadbasket, and obliterating all human life that crossed it's path.

Scythe force was heading roughly towards the celebrated city of Five Fingers, but Jardon wasn't certain that this army would engage a city. They might simply leave a holding force to place it under siege and continue their ravage to the northwest. No matter what the outcome of Axe force's decapitating strike was, if the civilian populace could be forced into the cities the nation of Ord was done for. Famine and disease would accomplish the Cryxian aims just as well as a host of thralls.

Opposite Scythe force was a similarly irregular collection of living forces. Jarl identified them as primarily Four Star men, mercenaries and privateers showing up in force to defend Five Fingers and the regions around it. They were well suited to the diffuse engagement that was necessary to defend against such a strike, and according to the map they were having more success than the military proper, though that might well be due to a reduced quality of opponent.

The final enemy army, code named Shroud force, was barely in Ord at all. They were the least of the thralls, with little to no Warcaster presence reported, and barely a jack. Just a host of the dead, spreading like an ink stain along the northern and southern border. They were attacking down along the fort line, spreading the break that the enemy's massed strike had torn in the east. They lacked the power to break the forts, but they were able to confine what portion of Ord's strength had been caught in them, and more critically they were cutting the lines of communication and relief between Ord and it's living neighbors.

The name Shroud referred to what must be falling across Ord in the eyes of Khador and Cygnar, as these thralls intercepted civilian refugees and military reinforcements alike. They were even pushing on the border forts of the other nations, pushing the allies of Ord onto the defensive, and keeping their forces away while the more effective Cryxian assets pursued the grim business of war.

Jardon and Brucker spoke with the Father-Defender briefly, and came up with a plan of action.

[Walter]

The plan was both unspectacular and unsurprising. They would strike at the rear of the Scythe force.

It was the enemy army that was doing the most damage, without question. The depopulation of rural Ord would have generation long ramifications if it could be completed, and the endless thralls harvested therein would guarantee the success of the other Cryxian armies. Indeed, the enemy's strategy could be read as a diversion with the Axe army, making way for the main advance into the countryside.

Jardon didn't subscribe to that theory, in his view all of the enemy's attacks were in grim earnest. The dead legions just didn't seem subtle enough to bother with feints. They'd prepared long and hard for this day, and now they'd spend the fruits of that effort on battlefields across Ord. He figured that their strategy was an opportunistic one. If the Axe blow destroyed Meryn and crushed living resistance, well and good. If it merely penned up the most prominent living forces while the Scythe razed the countryside, then that too would fit the enemy's plans.

Brucker didn't care. The enemy were attacking the civilian populace. He was wearing a uniform precisely to put a stop to such things, and Father-Defender Gaxxon agreed with him. Nobody raised an objection, and that was that.

It would be some time before they moved out, however, as the refugees had to be settled into the monastery and the wounded from the battle seen to. He caught up with Brucker as he was donning his gear, to ask a question that had been on his mind.

"Solomon, what did she say?" There was no need to clarify further. He'd clearly seen the Cryxian witch speak briefly before she beat her retreat. It was an odd moment of calmness in a frenzied battle, and it stuck in his mind.

Brucker looked pensive, almost ashamed. He looked away for a moment and muttered something under his breath. It had been some time since Jardon had seen this look on him, his court martial if he recollected properly.

"Come on now, I have to-" Brucker raised a hand, cutting him off. He spat to one side, raised his voice into a more audible octave.

"She said" he related, "Bet you wish you had a gun right now, huh?" He scowled as he related the comment, his thunderous face daring the old jailer to laugh at him.

So Jardon did.

A moment later, Brucker joined in.

Everyone looked at them like they were crazy.

[Note to anyone who reads this regularly, I'll be at Warmachine Weekend! Say hi if you see me!]

[Walter]

Brucker's war garb was a sight in and of itself.

Restored to his possession with hurried ceremony, the armor had clearly been taken care of. It was pure white, naturally, looked like some sort of composite marble and metal. Jardon had no doubt a smith would tell him that it was no natural material, the Priests of Morrow had clearly had a hand in it's fabrication.

In addition to it's odd composition, the armor was built to attract the eye. Fluted greaves, elaborate vambraces, the whole thing cried out "Enemy Leader, take an axe to me!". Such was the skill of the crafters that the armor even seemed to hold the sun's light, a soft golden hue warred with the white throughout, triumphing only in the cape.

Jardon groaned, shook his head. He'd forgotten the Aces all wore capes. No wonder they'd received history's condemnation as paper soldiers. They looked the part. No one who traveled with Brucker would be fooled for a second, but he wasn't doing the band any favors should they chance to meet up with allied forces.

Brucker, once armed, called the band together and gave a brief speech.

"We go to punish the wicked and protect the innocent. I'll not insult you by listing the perils, they are as numerous as you imagine. I'll not insult you by asking for volunteers, any man who'd forsake this obligation, in the face of the Dragonfather's hordes, is no man at all. I'll not insult you by promising to protect you, for to purchase victory we are all expected to sacrifice all we have. I'll just say this. I'm going to survive, and if you don't, I'll remember you."

Reaction was muted. The big man was no good at speechmaking, and he hadn't hit all the right notes here, but speeches wouldn't have moved these men anyway. Everyone formed up, stealing last glances at the monastery as they left it behind.

Brucker's cape fluttered in the afternoon breeze.

[Walter]

They didn't run into any more of the enemy before night fell.

In a way, this was a comfort. Jardon's could take a man's measure without effort. It was a byproduct of his employment in the Pit. These men were running on emotion. They were sustained by their passion, by the urgency of the situation. He'd prefer comrades sustained by food and slumber, regular excercise and training. Failing that, some rest would go a long way. The men had left prison, fought a battle, and then marched hard for most of the day. If they couldn't find another foe before morning, there'd be no complaining from his quarter.

Brucker showed no such emotion. His conviction drove him onwards, and he was visibly reluctant when he gave the order to break their march and set up camp. Gaxxon and the Precursors probably could have continued on into the night, but encountering Cryxian forces under cover of dark would be too suicidal even for such zealots.

The command structure, such as it was, was interesting. Gaxxon clearly controlled his men, while Jardon was officially in charge of the remnants of the Pit's garrison. Those men who had previously been prisoners had no official leaders at all, while Jarl represented an alternate command structure entirely.

It showed in setting up watches. Gaxxon simply assigned Precursors to the task, while Jardon began to look through the irregulars for sufficiently unfatigued men. Brucker asked for volunteers to join him in staying up all night, and had to be talked down by Mayet and Sansa to get any rest at all. Jarl offered bonuses, payable after the present difficulties were over, of course, and by hook or by crook they managed to get three watches set up.

Jardon agonized over whether or not they should build a campfire, but ultimately his desire for light won out over the need for secrecy. No one knew what the Cryxians used to find their victims, it wasn't even clear if they would be increasing their danger by having light. The prospect of being set upon by the enemy in pitch darkness was simply too threatening, so light they'd have.

Fortunately, the camp was rife with military personnel, and they were able to set up a nightly fortification in some semblance of good order. It wasn't anything comparable to the shrine, but with a couple hours of labor (primarily performed by Gaxxon's men) Jardon was surprised to see rudimentary barricades surrounding their fires. The watchmen peered out over them, keeping their night vision by looking away from the fires, while the men huddled together as close to the life giving warmth as they dared.

The wilderness noise surrounded their shelter, animals hooting and night life taking place as though the land was unaware of the dire threat it was under. Jardon hadn't realized just how much the Pit had taken from him. Everyone missed the sun, the day. He'd longed for it for years consecutively, but only now did he realize how much he'd missed the night. Not the undifferentiated darkness of the Pit, but the natural quiet of the land at rest, the soft twinkle of stars far away, and the crackling of a campfire. It was just as natural as the light of noon, and just as necessary.

He had just begun to drift off to sleep, when he heard Sansa's voice, weird and strained, arising from her slumbering form.

[Walter]

"Ye who have ears, hear the truths that have been given to me to impart"

"Ye who struggle, bide your moment. It is given unto you to hear these truths in silence and submission."

"Ye who have mind, receive the Word of Toruk"

"Ye who have hope, forsake it now"

"Ye who have triumphed over the Wraith Witch, glory not in your sunlight triumph"

"Ye who live, prepare for death"

"Ye who wonder, know that you are addressed by Divinitas, Lich Lord of Cryx and Prophet of Toruk"

"Ye who breathe, prepare to cease"

"Ye who seek to thwart our ascension, await the Unmasker"

"Ye who move, grow cold and still"

"Ye who seek the Trifold Blessing, mind it that the Circle of Cryx has your aim in mind."

"Ye who despair, ye are wise indeed"

"Ye who trust your comrades, know that one is a member of my flock"

"Ye who trust your fate, know that you are selected for the consuming"

"Ye who seek the blessings of the Gods of men, ye shall find your way blocked at every turn"

"Ye who laud your strength of arms, ye shall be taught the meaning of the concept"

"Ye who come to the final struggle, I await you there, with my Lord behind me."

"Ye who encounter HIM, ye shall pass no farther."

"Ye who are not daunted, take heed. I shall risk my existence to defeat your aims."

"Ye who worship not the God of Caen, ye are fool indeed"

"Ye who abide not by his principles, your fate shall be abomination beyond your understanding."

"Ye who take not heed of the words of the Prophet, hear now the Word of the Master"

"..."

"..."

"Burn"

[Ice Raven]

Absolutely fantastic!

I'm reading this with baited breath!

You write really, really well.

[Walter]

The last utterance was delivered in a harsh, choked voice, deeper than Sansa's throat could have possibly produced. It broke the spell that Jardon had been held by, brought him gasping and rising from the land between dreams and waking. He woke into tumult.

He must have been deaf to the world of men while the weird voice held him spellbound, for there was no other way to explain how he'd slept to this moment.

Men ran here and there, blades flashing as they strove against writhing daemons of smoke. They were shadows and shouts to his sleep benumbed mind, just a chaos of impressions against the struggle taking place at the center of the camp.

There Solomon and Gaxxon strove against a skull of flame, or perhaps a serpent, it changed instant by instant. It hovered above them, rising from the trio of bright fires they'd banked against the night's chill. The battle was not a physical one, but a clash of ritual.

With fervent intensity, cutting through the screams of the soldiers and the clamor of battle, they intoned Morrowan Battle cants, and it seemed that their prayers had some effect. The lower perimeter of the great flame seemed to sheet over an invisible dome, or sphere, and it wavered and sputtered in the night wind.

Jardon came to his feet before he could see more, and stepped straight through a smoke wraith. He was instantly chilled, the fog or vapor which composed the apparition like ice to his mortal form, but it faded around him and he passed on without trouble. He made straight for his target, like an arrow fired in desperation.

Sansa lay still sprayed in slumber, yet her mouth moved without ceasing in a grotesque counterpoint to the holy prayers of the Ace of Heroes. It contorted and distended to utter the the sounds that issued forth, and a plume of smoke emerged from her throat to join the mists of the camp.

To his side the Dragon-flame reared up, mounting into a vast pillar. Perhaps its conjurer was aware that his channel would momentarily be disrupted, or perhaps the wards were merely failing at last, but the flame that appeared from it's maw was no campfire blaze. Held still, mounting towards an inferno was the corrupted green flame of Cryx, gathering before the Dragon like an emerald midnight sun.

Too late, however, had the warlock responsible moved to this extreme. Before the flame could be released Jardon threw himself inelegantly across Sansa's prone form, landing a heavy knee to her thigh and waking her in a rush.

[Beowulf99]

Need. More. I love this story!

[PG_Saidin]

I've been following for a while, just wanted to say great job so far.

[Walter]

[Thanks for the feedback, guys! It always helps motivate me to know that folks are reading this.]

With the awakening of Sansa, the smoke shapes blurred into a more ordinary mist, and the flames flickered and died from the sky, guttering low in their pits as though chastened by the Morrowan chanting. The yelling and commotion took much longer to die down.

It was long minutes before order could be restored, and there was one more casualty, as a prisoner who'd taken cover in the forest came bursting out and was lit up from three vectors. Brucker roared with rage at the unfortunates, but Jardon figured they were probably fortunate to get away with just one incident of friendly fire.

He wasn't certain, but it didn't seem like anyone else had heard the Cryxian proclamation, nor noticed that Sansa's possession was the source of the incident. Certainly there was no rush to ask her what had been going on. She even seemed entirely unaware, aside from cursing his clumsiness she mostly seemed mortified to have slept through an attack.

If attack it had truly been. The mistaken killing at the last was the only actual loss their motley band had suffered, though several men had inhaled smoke and spent some time hacking and coughing. No actual Cryxians seemed to have been involved, and the band as a whole was writing it off as a haunting, just one of those things that happened on blighted ground.

Jardon knew better, but he wasn't sure who to tell, or even whether he should tell anyone. The enemy's sending had clearing been aimed at their morale. Would he be enabling them if he let Brucker and the rest know? Or had the spell mostly been about the fire and smoke nonsense, and his hearing of their incantation an unhappy byproduct? It was maddening.

Despite a bone deep weariness he elected to stay awake. He was unsurprised to see that the watch's size had doubled. Few had the constitution necessary to return to slumber after such an event, though most of the prisoners and refugees managed it. Gaxxon's men made up the majority of the new volunteer watchmen, for which Jardon was grateful, they were clearly the best soldiers of the bunch.

He wracked his brain. He didn't know much of the practice of warlocks and the like, but he doubted intensely that Sansa had been the agent of the enemy's spell of her own volition. She'd spent the last years of her life living in a prison, and fought like hell to deny the enemy said prison's contents. Her behavior didn't add up for an enemy agent, and besides, he knew the girl, she was true.

Someone had slipped her something, then, blighted food or a hex cast when she wasn't looking. Maybe one of the enemy in the battle, but more likely it was one of them. The Cryxian had boasted of an agent among them, and while Jardon wasn't predisposed to believe what the enemy had to say, it was certainly a possibility. Something about the voice of this Divinitas seemed too large for such petty deceits. They'd be beneath it's dignity.

He pondered his traveling companions, seeking the likely traitor, and came up with four possibilities.

[Bringer Of The Void]

As others said before this is one of the best Fan Fictions that deeply expand an Important part of the Setting...

After all Ord is not only Pirates and Five Fingers, even if these are very cool Background Elements...

I believe that all of the Character's Cast are very believable and defined, but I especially like the way the most important Figure of the "Rag-Tag Army" (the Divine Warcaster of Morrow, Solomon Brucker...) is described from an "Outside" point-of-view...

Keep Up the Good Work.....!!!

[Walter]

First, and most obvious, was the outsider, Jarl. He'd have been in a much better place to make contact with Cryxian agents, not being cooped up in the Pit. His association with the Five Fingers, whatever the exact nature of it was, certainly didn't augur well for his fundamental trustworthiness. He hadn't really participated in the last battle, and Jardon hadn't known him long enough to have formed an opinion of his character. If he had to guess, he'd point the finger at Jarl.

Another easy mark was Mayet. She was notorious for her somewhat heretical religious views, could they have led her from the beaten path? Once she let go of the conventional morality of Ord, would she still reject the faith of the Dragonfather? Brucker would certainly say as much, but Jardon had been taught that Thamarists, while selfish and ambitious, were not necessarily the monsters they were portrayed as. In particular, he didn't know how to square what he'd been taught of the Dark Sister's doctrine with eternal slavery to a dragon. Still, if she could abandon the faith of the land of her birth, who's to say she couldn't drop another just as quickly, and shape herself to the doctrine of the Nightmare Empire? Some flowers thrived in the moonlight, after all.

The mercenary, Kell, was another possibility. As a career soldier Jardon had naught but contempt for the Four Star scum, and the celebrated assassin was ultimately no better. His shooting skill didn't necessarily indicate a sound mind, indeed it would be entirely in character for a Cryxian agent to be an expert at dealing death from a safe vantage point. The sniper didn't seem like a coward to the old jailor, but he certainly didn't risk his life when he struck from hiding and a distance. He was widely traveled and cosmopolitan, and a sought after agent in times of conflict. He would be an ideal agent. The only thing that seemed incongruous in the portrayal was that in all of the stories he'd heard of Kell Bailoch, he'd never once heard of him working for Cryx, but there were plenty of tales of him fighting against them.

The last possibility was the most chilling, but he had to consider it. It could be Brother Gaxxon. The shrine had held out against a warcaster until they arrived. How? The relief force had sortied and rescued them, true, but the tide of the battle had turned by then. The enemy's strength was broken when Bran and Tuvore held back their jacks, Gaxxon and his relief troops didn't strike a blow. It went against his beliefs to suspect a Morrowan priest, but he didn't know this man, and perhaps the enemy's foul arts could counterfeit the trappings of his faith. Gaxxon or one of his subordinates would be an invaluable infiltrator for the enemy, precisely because they were above suspicion.

[Shortarse]

Fantastic only complaints are there's not more to read and I am supposed to be working on my degree but can't tear myself away. If ever you publish a book I want a copy!

[Walter]

With the dawn, the camp stirred. The former prisoners, and their former captors, savored the sight. The rising sun seemed to burn away the memories of their dark burial. The Morrowan Preceptors had rituals of their own to practice with the birthing of the day, and Jardon was unsurprised to see that Brucker led them in their communions. His warcaster armor apparently doubled as ritual vestments, for he hadn't bothered to change into the official raiment of the Morrowan faith.

Rest, even what little they'd managed, had done the men well. The native Ordic forces, mostly comprised of Grenadiers but with a sprinkling of survivors and refugees, formed up into marching order with much better cheer than they'd displayed at day's end of the previous day. The previous night's alarming incident seemed to have lost much of it's impact with the coming of light, and Lasleen reported the unit's strength as fully battle ready.

The Preceptors, of course, had the discipline to disregard the nocturnal sendings of the foe, and the rest and stamina to be ready to go despite working the majority of the watch. Then, too, their prayer most likely had a restorative effect. Brucker certainly channeled healing powers, most likely Gaxxon did as well, to a much lesser extent. Such puissance would go a long way towards increasing the band's resilience.

Bad Cat, oddly enough, was the most sluggish. It's cortex apparently had an affinity for the dark, born of long habit in the Pit, and roused only with growling reluctance in the bright morning. Jardon knew how it felt. They'd grabbed food aplenty, and water was in easy reach, but he'd completely forgotten to ask Gaxxon if they had any coffee. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and started as the familiar odor reached his nostrils. Someone hadn't forgotten.

He looked over, startled, to see Sansa ladeling the stuff out to a small group of the Grenadiers. Naturally. He moved over and took his place in line.
The soldiers mumbled excuses and moved aside, though he tried to wave them back into place, and he moved up to take a cup. Sansa arched an eyebrow.

"After you damn near crippled me last night? Some nerve, old timer." She matched her words with an easy smile and poured him a cup, looked like the last of the pot. Jardon chuckled as he took it. He moved to step aside for the next man, but discovered that everyone else had sort of moved off.

"Seriously though," she continued, "I have no idea why I was under so hard. Imagine, a battle didn't wake me! Fighting must have taken more out of me than I thought. I'm sorry sir, I l-" he cut her off. "You should be sorry," he made a face, "this is wretched. I've tasted better joe made in a Khadoran boot."

She subsided, nodding easily, back into the rhythm of their familiar morning rituals "Beggars can't be choosers, sir."

He turned away, heading towards Brucker, and walked a few steps, then paused. "Sansa", he called back, "Do better tomorrow."

[Beowulf99]

Awesome Stuff Walt! Can't wait for the next update!

[Walter]

Despite Jardon's misgivings, they headed out in the morning with all due speed. If the group was disturbed by their nocturnal misadventures, they didn't show it. Their march was more energetic and passionate than that of the night before. Rest had done them well.

Brucker led from the front, pressing forward with the Morrowans about him, the desire to mete out retribution plain in his every stride. Gaxxon ranged throughout the band, exercising the ancient luxury of the mounted man in the company of those on foot. The rest of the officer corp, Jardon at their head, marched in the center of the formation, shielded from sudden attack.

They were able to tighten their formation somewhat as they moved west, and the morning wore on. The trees were thinner on the ground, yielding more and more to the grasslands of central Ord. They were leaving the great wood behind, for which Jardon was inwardly thankful. As they emerged, however, they were struck by the sight as the veil of forest vanished.

The plains smoked and almost shuddered, seemingly appalled at the crimes committed amidst its grasses. There were several fires burning, and groups hurried hither and thither across the miles with dreadful purpose. On the high grasslands the scale of the Cryxian attack showed itself to full, ghastly effect, and it was a daunting spectacle.

But the will of the band was of iron, and they set out without ceremony or pause for the nearest band to the forest's edge, a supply caravan, wagons of dark iron, which had apparently emerged from the woodlands just a few minutes before them.

Jardon tightened his grip on his battered blade, and grinned a wolfish smile.

[Walter]

The "Battle" which followed was short and sweet.

The thralls assigned to the supply caravans defense were adequate to protect it from, perhaps, wild animals, or desperate refugees. They were not equipped to battle soldiers. This area must have been considered safe by the Cryxian command, or perhaps they had just overlooked it, but for whatever reason the encounter was entirely lopsided.

The corpses ran towards the Ordic forces in an uncoordinated mass. The grenadiers fired a volley, over the shoulders of the Morrowan infantry, who formed a fighting wall. The enemy shambled mindlessly forward, and made it to the shield wall.

Between the armor of their shields and the increases reflexes granted by Brucker's defensive spell not a one of the Morrowans was struck down. They counterattacked, not leaving their wall nor exposing themselves. It was pure butchery, they crushed the skulls of corpses with precision and efficiency. Jardon marveled at their prowess. He hadn't supposed that the temples training was so effective.

The remnants of the enemy showed no hint of realizing their situation, and closed again on the shield wall, to similar lack of effect. One man went down under a heavy double handed punch, but he rose again in an instant, plainly none the worse for wear. The Grenadiers charged in to assist in the melee, and the last of the thralls were swiftly disabled.

Brucker and company didn't spend long consolidating their gains. With no casualties they moved on to the wagons themselves. Already Jardon could see other Cryxian forces turning in their direction. None appeared to be front line units, but their numbers were considerable. Still, they were some distance away. There should be time to wreck the supply wagons and make it back to the forest.

That wasn't the plan, apparently. Gaxxon and Brucker raced ahead into the wagons and immediately began the process of circling them up. As everyone arrived they pitched in, forcing the iron frames flush with one another, and taking up positions atop them. While a full circle wasn't practical, they were quickly able to make a sort of a U shape, by steering the front vehicles towards one another.

Gaxxon's men swiftly resumed their shield wall formation, spreading across the open area of the U. The grenadiers, by contrast, climbed onto the wagons and prepared to employ their rifles. The wagons contents, rancid corpses and wrecked metal, made for good firing platforms, and the sides would present a serious obstacle to thralls attempting to ascend them.

The command group stayed in the center, though Sansa and May ascended to the wagons to directly support the shooters. Jardon moved to take a place in the shield line, but Gaxxon motioned him back. Apparently he was in reserve, or something. Brucker was in the middle too though, so there was going to be some fighting.

He moved up to the Ace of Heroes. "Solomon, they are going to completely surround us." He didn't need to ask the obvious question.

Brucker nodded, absently, his gaze switching anxiously from place to place, waiting for the first of the thralls to arrive. "Yeah, " he responded, "their mistake."

[maxxev]

*clap, clap, clap*

Very good very good indeed.

If PP ever do novels I think you're in with a very good chance.

[Walter]

[I'm actually pretty sure that PP doesn't read fan fiction, for legal reasons. I dunno where I got that idea, I think I was at a con and talking to a black library employee, but my presumption has always been that fan fiction is invisible to the powers that be. Hmm...now that I actually write it down that sounds kind of silly.]

Jardon was disappointed to discover that the enemy forces were under some form of centralized command. He'd initially hoped that the Cyxians, lacking a command figure, would simply attack them as they arrived, and could be dealt with in detail. No such luck. The enemy forces converged not on the improvised fortress, but in a battle array aimed towards shield wall side, well out of rifle range.

The Cryxian forces, while impressive numerically (outnumbering their Ordic adversaries at least 4 to 1), suffered from the absence of a warcaster. They had no jacks, nor could Jardon make out an actual leader among them. Instead their advantage was sheer quantity. The enemy had gathered the defending forces of 3 other supply caravans and joined that strength to whatever their version of a roving response force was, to make up a veritable host.

The main force of their army was thralls. The walking dead, similar to the foes that Jardon had seen in the Pit, were deployed in force. Jardon wasn't dismayed by them, however, despite the numbers present. He'd seen such troops founder on the Morrowan shield wall before, and they had no special affinity for climbing the barricade.

The enemy had two other units, however, which seemed like they could present serious problems. Among the enemy, darting here and there, were a trio of distorted hybrid thralls. They were some blasphemous blend of the skeletons of man and horse, and displayed a quickness and a sentience that were both at odds with their mechanithrall compatriots. These creatures were likely responsible for the enemies coordinated response.

The real problem, however, was advancing more slowly. Waiting for this force was most likely the enemy's primary objective in gathering at a distance. The dreaded Bane Warriors of Cryx floated slowly over the plain, a dark patch against the green and blue. They seemed distortions, blemishes on the world's order. They floated slowly, two by two, just above the grass, brass and black figures with cruel pikes. There was something insubstantial about them, despite their heavy armor. Jardon figured they'd pass right through the makeshift barricade.

When the enemy had finished gathering Jardon was hoping that they would simply rush towards the fortress, to be held at the shield wall and picked off as they tried to bypass their own clumped formation. Instead of moving as a group, however, the forces of Cryx began to spread out, moving away from one another and drifting to both sides, like ink spilling onto a clock face.

They were still out of range on all sides. Jardon looked to Gaxxon, who was riding back and forth within the makeshift fortress, his steed snorting its agitation. They were being surrounded, calmly and methodically. If they sortied now they could hit one of the ends of the ring, using the fortress as partial cover, and disrupt the enemy's formation. Gaxxon looked to be thinking something similar.

He moved to Brucker and said as much, but Solomon slowly shook his head. "Let them come" said the Ace, "I need them clumped together."

[Beowulf99]

I feel a Feat coming on...

[Walter]

The instant the ring closed, it began to contract. The thralls were still out of range of the defender's firearms, and they moved at a pace that Jardon could only call menacing. This was not the military advance, nor was it the cautious forward motion employed when the enemy threatened. This was a threatening gait, a purposeful strut. Yet another example of the enemy's propensity for intimidation.

They needn't have bothered. The men of Ord hunkered down on their improvised barricades, or stood solemn and silent in their shield wall. Brucker prayed quietly, asking Morrow for wisdom. Kell shifted his aim from moment to moment, perhaps rehearsing shots yet to be released. Bad Cat brandished it's battle blade, and worked it in furious arcs. Jarl, Sansa and May conferred quietly, while Gaxxon rode from place to place. Jardon took a moment to inspect the entire group, and didn't see a single combatant who was daunted by the Cryxian display.

Perhaps sensing that this battle would not end in surrender or rout, the enemy got serious. They advanced to the edge of rifle range, tempting the early volley. The Ordic forces refused to commit, understanding that the thralls would be on them before they reloaded. It was a momentary standoff. The enemy was safe where they stood, but would suffer if they took one more step.

Or perhaps if they did not. Kell started the battle with two shots of his long gun. The firearm's provenance was beyond Jardon's knowledge, but it was quite a piece of work. His bullets outranged the Ordic rifles that the enemy had compensated for, and his shots were as rapid as ever. A pair of Bane Knights toppled to the ground, dissipating into dust and ashes before they touched the soil.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then the enemy charged. Whatever commanding intelligence there was hadn't been expecting such long ranged and skillful gunplay, and, stung, lashed out. The enemy ran directly at the barricade, daring the bullets. The only noticeable clumps in the circle came off to the left, where the Banes had been directed. There the thralls stood thick and deep, clustered to form a mobile shield for the Banes.

With a thunderous roar the Grenadiers let them have it. While capable of combined fire, in this case they eschewed it, with each man picking his target. The corpses reeled and fell, but others continued the rush. They had more men than the volley could clear, and these were not living attackers, to be daunted by the destruction of their fellows.

The thralls came on, trampling their fallen underfoot and making the barricade. At the front of the U they engaged the shield wall, while all around they climbed the twisted wagon superstructure with an appalling quickness. Their steam powered fists made excellent levers, and hey hurled themselves up at the soldiers who had fired upon them. It was likely Jardon's imagination, but in the mindless dead he thought he could detect a hunger, an echo of their master's timeless need.

It was at this moment, as the enemy prepared to strike their first blows in earnest, that the Ace of Heroes played his hand.

A barely perceptible light shone from him, just a sullen glow, like a candle shielded by a cupped hand. It expanded rapidly, however, radiating out in every direction, and encompassing the wagon barricades and the enemy beyond. The glow rose from the ground, creeping up the legs of men and thrall alike, to markedly different effect.

The defenders found themselves healed. Cuts reknit, bruises faded, even the direst of wounds mended themselves without ceremony or display. This was the principal area of Morrow's power, channeled by a servant whose faith had never faltered, and it was effective beyond the telling. Even Jardon's old joints, hardened by years of toil in the Pit, relaxed and moved with the supple swiftness he recalled from his youth. In a twinkling the Grenadiers and Morrowans were restored to the absolute peak of health.

The thralls fared differently. None so abhor the crimes of the necromancer as the Morrowan faith, and His benediction was more than the animating magics could withstand. Silently and without a visible cause the dead simply toppled where they stood. There flesh was unmarred, but the vile magics which had compelled them to stand and fight were released, snuffed like candles in a pool of deep water. Even the Banes were not proof against Morrow's power, the stain of their presence was washed from the world, and their arms and forms clattered to the ground in sullen heaps.

Brucker breathed out, a deep breathe like a man emerging from deep, dark waters, and then in again.

[Beowulf99]

Woot! Awesome stuff!

[Walter]

The remainder of the day passed in a blur. The enemy had clearly not been anticipating that their gathered forces would be wiped out without compensating damage on the defender's side, and they suffered for it. The caravans whose guards had joined the attack were easy pickings. Another one blundered out of the trees and into an Ordic ambush later on in the afternoon.

Jardon put some thought into the enemy's supply strategy. The thralls had been hauling corpses and necrotite, short term supplies. There hadn't been any shipments of jacks, or serious reinforcement units. It seemed to him that the Cryxian main front must not be engaged in a major battle. The supplies that they were sending were the sorts of things he'd expect them to run low on while rampaging through the countryside, but not enough to resupply following a major confrontation.

This indicated that Scythe hadn't yet forced a major confrontation with the Five Fingers troops. He dared to hope that they were still cautious about meeting a living army in pitched battle. Cryx had a long raiding history, but so far as he knew they'd never fought a major engagement with a standing army, lacking the element of surprise. Their sneak attack on the forts notwithstanding, Jardon thought it entirely possible that the enemy would hold off from a straight up fight until they had some guarantee of the outcome.

Today's successes would hurt the enemy. Jacks would stall without the necrotite currently spilled across the Ordic grasses, and the wave assaults that the enemy favored would be curtailed when their thralls ran low. But they wouldn't be enough, not nearly enough, to stop the Scythe's momentum in and of themselves. The enemy pushed forward primarily because they had more warcasters than the defenders. Stripping supplies was all well and good, but it wouldn't change that grim dynamic.

Brucker would be as aware of these facts as Jardon himself was. Striking the underbelly was all well and good, but the place of an Ordic warcaster was on the front lines. He needed more jacks than the Bad Cat, he needed allies and specialized troops. Solomon would help offset the enemy's warcaster superiority, and might even have a chance at eliminating one of the Cryxian casters, but only if he could make it to their own lines. Otherwise, regardless of the damage they did to the enemy's infrastructure, they would ultimately be destroyed in detail, isolated and surrounded by the enemy throng.

Today's efforts, satisfying though they were, hadn't changed their ultimate situation. They needed to break through Scythe force...no, Jardon corrected himself. Their efforts had accomplished one thing. This morning, they'd needed to break through Scythe force. Now they needed to break through...and Cryx knew they were coming.

[maxxev]

well not actually maxxev, the real maxxev (my O/H) liked this so much he insisted i read it and despite the fact that this isn't my usual reading material and my knowledge of warmachine is (exceedingly) limited i find myself enjoying this.
I hope you will continue : )

[Walter]

As the sun set the Ordic forces were once again forced to make camp. It had been an exhausting day, but no one suggested just setting to out no the open plains. They assayed a short forced march as the day was ending, ultimately arriving at a position the mercenary sniper had pointed out earlier that afternoon.

Opinion was split over whether the enemy would retaliate during the evening, or whether it would take them longer to understand what was going on and take adequate steps. Brucker believed that the enemy would reel from the harm they'd wrought all day long, he was a veteran of military actions and didn't think the enemy would be able to adapt to a sudden presence in their rear in a 12 hour period. Jarl was more cynical, announcing that he figured they'd be attacked before the night was through, it would be just his luck. Gaxxon agreed, figured that the enemy likely had less command overhead than a living host of the same size and composition.

Jardon privately agreed with the Preceptor commander, but for his own reasons. Whoever had blighted Sansa, the traitor among them, that person would be desperate. They'd failed Cryx by not warning the caravans, he'd wager the Lich Lords didn't forgive failure lightly. If another day went by and they continued to enjoy military successes, the traitor would likely be forced to take direct action. To forestall that, he figured that the enemy agent had or would leak their location and approximate strength during the evening.

Fortunately, their location was formidable. There was a creek out on the plains, and it had fed a tiny copse of trees. This oasis made for an excellent fortified position, and the craft of Gaxxon's men had swiftly made of the treeline a makeshift barricade. They strung ropes (looted from the enemy over the course of the day or just brought from the monastery) between the trunks and bent branches down to weave snares. He even spied a few digging pits on the outskirts, plying spade with the same enthusiasm they showed for bashing the enemies of Morrow.

Jardon resolved to spend the night on watch. He leaned into the wall, deforming it with his body's weight. Unceasing vigilance was the only answer to the challenge posed by the enemy. He'd plenty of...

...

...

He jolted awake as a hand tapped him on the shoulder. His mouth tasted like sand and sweat, and he stifled a tremendous yawn. He looked around, dawn was breaking and Sansa and May were standing over him with a mug of coffee.

[Walter]

Jardon cursed quietly, then stood and accepted his beverage. Natural consequence of getting older, he supposed, but he intensely regretted falling asleep so fast. He'd been planning to watch the camp for signs of the traitor, not to mention trying to keep up morale among the troops assigned to watch by sharing their burden. The fact that they'd had to pick their way around his snoring form as they circled the camp would have had precisely the opposite effect.

He sipped his coffee, smiling ruefully. No point in pining over what's gone, and at least he felt rested and refreshed. No Cryxian horror had crept up and slit his throat, so there was something. In addition, no one was on fire, so there was another improvement over the previous night. He thanked Morrow for small mercies.

Mayet spoke, because her piping and squeaky voice was exactly what he needed in the morning. "Rest well, boss?" She accompanied her greeting with a civilian's faux salute. "You were thrashing around something fierce all night." He closed his eyes for a moment. Naturally she'd been able to stay awake all night. His humiliation wouldn't be total without an 80 pound Thamarite ex prisoner excelling him at feats of endurance.

"Bad dreams" he grunted. "Getting too old for this nonsense." He waited a moment, sort of hurt that Sansa didn't contradict him. He looked around for Brucker and Gaxxon, figuring that they'd probably stayed up and planned the next move during the night. Sansa divined his intention, and pointed out beyond the fortifications.

Jardon walked a little toward where she indicated, then cursed again. Solomon knelt outside of the barricade, blade point down into the soil before him. It was a stance associated with a Vigil, a Morrowan tradition where the supplicant sat motionless throughout the night, ceremonially outlasting the darkness, and sought Morrow's blessing along with the rising sun. It was an old ritual, not practiced as much anymore, but no doubt it was good for the warcaster's soul. Jardon, however, wasn't terribly concerned about Solomon's soul, but his body could have used a night of rest. He'd brought forth Morrow's benedication yesterday, and cast his spells in each combat encounter. A long day of marching and fighting, and he'd followed it up with a night of prayer. Typical.

He made his way to the warcaster, unconcerned about disturbing him. The dawn had brought the close of the formal ritual, if Solomon still knelt it was either because he was meditating, or he'd just fallen asleep on his knees. The warcaster's helm rotated as Jardon got closer, and the Ace bounded to his feet with the irritating ease of the supremely fit.

"So, where do we go now?" he asked. Ever since pointing out the monastery there'd been an uneasy partnership between the pair. Solomon steered the party by virtue of power, but was technically ranked by Jardon until reconfirmed by HQ. In truth, they worked together well, and it wasn't really a point of contention between them. Jardon figured Solomon's Vigil had likely been directed towards determining their next move.

He wasn't disappointed. Brucker gave a broad smile and pointed back to the camp. "Actually, we don't need to go anywhere at all. We are right where we need to be."

[Walter]

The Ordic force busied themselves with the myriad tasks of morning. Soldiers maintained their weapons, looked to the barricades. Morrowan precursors performed their devotions. The Bad Cat was awakened again, fires banked but ready to be stirred to life should the battlefield services of the old Nomad be required. The officers, however, were embroiled in a heated discussion.

"You don't want us to move anywhere?" asked Jarl? His eyes were wide and his voice a trifle unsteady. "Solomon, the enemy is certainly aware that we are here after yesterday's actions. Are you saying we should simply await their retribution?"

Slowly, Solomon shook his head. "Not as such, though that's certainly a possibility. Morrow has revealed to me that we are where we need to be. He didn't elaborate as to why, but we need to be here." This was a common Brucker failing. Faced with someone who questioned his decision he'd simply repeat his motivations, as though he didn't really have a choice.

"So, we are just going to...wait?" asked Jarl. He'd crossed the line into scorn. Jardon made a mental note to talk to him about that after the conference. It wouldn't do to take such a tone in front of the men. Bad for morale and all that. "How long?"

At this question Solomon looked uncomfortable. "I don't, exactly know, but I'm sure I'll know when it's time to leave." Jarl theatrically dropped his jaw and the Ordic warcaster nodded. "Ok, yeah, I wouldn't want to here that either. How about this, if noon comes and nothing has happened the unit can head off."

Jarl hadn't had Jardon's experience with the Ace of Heroes, so he believed him. He swore a bit more, then moved off. Jardon spoke quietly to Brucker. "So, what will we really do at noon, if nothing has happened yet? Jarl speaks for more of the men than you'd like to believe."

Brucker looked at him, expressionless. "The unit will head off, just like I said."

[imomam]

This is done so well.
I am really enjoying it.
I need five more installment right now!
your character development is great and synergy is spectacular
Thanks for all the work and efforts