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  Panic set into the Dalious heart as the great creature lumbered over the nets. The infection had been spewing directions non-stop for the past hour or so, so much that the entire side of his cheek was slicked in slime. More chitters rang like a chorus over the battlefield. The ratlings around him were barely under his control, twice a half second they would regain consciousness or some hint of lucid clarity and begin to flee only for their own infections to flair up and hurl them like marionettes into the pit.

  To the Dalious the events that had just transpired were naturally far from good. In light of an increasingly drastic situation, non-lethals were the only viable option and through the final acts of Nuem the Coward, it had been left to fend for itself with nothing more than fancy fishing equipment and an army that right now was sizzling more than pan-ful of bacon. The creature scoffed; it should have known better than to trust a soldier older than three hundred years. Old men in a profession where all die young were either highly proficient at their creed or tucked tail and ran from the slightest hint of danger. There was an honour in death Nuem clearly couldn’t understand, a glory to every ounce of blood spilt to hasten their saviours name and the Primelord’s fame seemed to lie on a short string. If there was any sense of duty left, the Master would deal with him later. It stood tall for a moment to crane it’s neck over the pit’s walls and glance onto the ground below. The Dalious’s armour was rubber-plated. It would help absorb at least a singe of the heretic magic the outsiders used. The lizard’s forked tongue licked the air to taste the static meshed into the cool breeze.

  It watched the pit with interest.

  Another strike made the quarry's walls shudder like thin glass. The radiant glow from within made even more of the ratlings shudder and step back in fright from the bonfire of sparks with licks of flame that spat out to slosh the damp ground. One by one Nuem’s left-over soldiers began to perish with archers and soot covered troops hurdling gas-bombs and smoke-toxins below. The Dalious knew it wouldn’t hurt their prey but it still appreciated the use of the toxins as a matter of ingenuity; they had to use every tool at their disposal if they were to subdue the creature with haste. The chemicals could dispose of the imperial soldiers quickly and what little information on the princelings' composure had been divulged made it clear the construct could withstand more than a sizable pounding. They would see the light soon enough and once it’s thoughts were no longer polluted and blemished in offworlder filth, the prisoner would be malleable for reintegration.

  More autonomic orders came in, this time the ooze from the blisters began to welch and swirl with more fluid and bile, conjoining into a yellow pus. Another line of ratlings dove into the pit to be singed in a near instant death. More back-lined ratlings began to march forward with light erupting from the pit in synchronized rays that pulsed in an effervescent glow. Those who had lesser degrees of infection started to flee. The Dalious didn’t have enough time to chase them down.

  He stared into the pit below like watching a fly dance infront of blood-let eyes. The master dictated that the princling shouldn’t be harmed but with luck they could knock him out and wait for the awakening. Some deeper, unaddled part of the lizard understood this was an impossible task, that he and his fellow servants would soon find themselves splattered like eggs on the grassy meadow. He let the feeling gnaw in his stomach, a wild animal tearing within but what little stress fought to the bulbous surface was soon smothered by a feeling of relief. Appreciation seeped into his addled mind. Eight months prior he had lived a subliminal existence, the Dalious’s thoughts would have been solely fixated on rivers and mountains, forging flimsy clubs with oldowan’s or worshiping the flames of false gods, not fielding armies. Before he had been nothing more than an animal, a quadrupedal brute no more intelligent than a ratling that subsisted off elusive game and starved in a troglodytic drudgery of caves, forest and constant misery. The master had shown him beauty, understanding, purpose and art. He could never take that away, no matter how peaceful and sublime his life as a mindless husk had been there would always be something more, forever out of reach and haunting him at the lisps of dreams.

  More neurohormones and compounds began to flood the lizard’s nervous system from the infection, giving him enough confidence to let out a sharp breath. They would slaughter the remaining imperials and leave the princeling in a state of incubation until further modifications could be made. Out of six days only five or so were left, with enough alchemy, fermented groundsprout and willpower they could keep him subdued. A group of the ratlings had grabbed net-launchers and harpoons from Nuem’s supplies, another six brought forward pikes and grappling rope. Traditionally, the equipment was stolen from imperial warehouses over ten months ago and used for whaling or capturing larger prey and game they had crossed in the Dawnshire forest.

  Eight days ago the Dalious had caught and infected an entire family of silta-bears in preparation for the siege of Kag, seven days prior he had flooded entire rivers, brooks and creeks with the infection to raise both provisions and additional troops.

  Now it was time to hunt the most dangerous game.

  Another human kept screaming at the Princeling. A shrill and demanding voice shrouded in annoyance from a spotty little face that kept bobbing up and down. The Dalious knew from it’s intelligence briefings with the Primelord this was a famous imperial; regardless it had been a sharp displeasure the Dalious wasn’t awarded the virtue of her death. The lizard smiled for a moment in the fact only one needed to be kept alive. Still it was smart enough to know that no amount of truth could smother the princelings wrath even after turned.

  Grappling at it’s belt the lizard began to toss a net into the pit when he first caught eyes with the princelings face. The stern expressions of a warrior shone through with the killer below slicing down hoards of fearless troops in near single strokes. Thirty ratlings lost their heads with a glimmer of lightning streaking like cobwebs from the scribes hands. Another leapt from the cliffs edge in a swing of bravery to be struck down like a mosquito in the dark. The lizard’s forked tongue tasted blood in the humid air. The scribe below was masterful at it’s craft, almost as if it was born to stand amongst the shores of a raging hell and spit in the eyes of gods. The Dalious felt fear. Like a farmer thrust into the world of battle, it was a modification, a recast, reshaped, reforged, unnatural fabrication, stolen from existing nature and customized for war. It was a formidable and proud killer but not bred for it, characteristically the Dalious was designed for hunting, for punching trees, grazing on tree leaves and dwelling in the undergrowth of hostile forests. Only a single fleshy ball sticking to it’s skull and plated armour made it a creature of battle.

  In contrast the princeling was designed for it, down to the lattice of every cell to the twitch of a single finger. The Dalious gripped his sword in preparation and swung it forward to stand at eye-level. It tensed for a moment before bracing forward. Then it saw the monster jump.

  —---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  “I said fight the lizard!! not hold hands!!!!!!” Aloat screamed.

  Jan hit the ground like a sack of wet pancakes. Pain shot through his side. Traditionally, when fighting it was never a good idea to jump directly into the arms of your enemy. Granted there was some leeway when it came to battlefield tactics and martial arts where throwing yourself at the oppositions head or chest had substantive tactical grounds. Three years ago the scribe had “accidentally” broke Damnu’s favourite chair after setting it on fire with a misformed duplication spell. Laura had eruditely blamed it the antics of a shoddy ceiling lamp but given the fact Damnu had been in the chair at the time the excuse didn’t hold too much clout. Especially after it was revealed the chair prided itself to be amongst the esteemed kind of it’s chair-like bretheren and had been a courteous gift to Damnu from the late magistrate himself. At the time, the punishment had been copying a near six thousand and twenty-three pages of imperial service manuals on close quarters combat. Jan could have sworn there was a chapter on fighting Dalious, it involved a small army and sharpened harpoons but it did revolve around jumping. Leaping fifty feet through the air to accidentally slam into tree sized lizard was however suboptimal at best…...

  Especially when you had three back-seat drivers playing bingo with combat advice.

  “Stab it Commander!! Staaaaaaaaaaaab!!! This anthropod is a puppet of the enemy!!!!!” Sill’s voice rang through in enthusiastic fervour.

  “Zapp me! Zapp me quickly Sill!” Laura responded while clambering out of the pits edge.

  “Laura, Jan may be a coward but grow a spine and kill those humans!!” Aloat shouted as she deflected an arrow from another one of Nuem’s archers and stabbed a dagger into another bandit’s chest.

  More imperials emerged from the pit, rushing forward to catch a demoralized and chaotic world above.

  Anger caught the scribe’s lips as he pushed himself off the Dalious’s chest. He had slammed into the creature's chest like a popgun and the two were now sprawled in the mud with even more ratlings getting charred by lightning from the scribe’s fists. The enemy was dropping like flies, chain attacks cleaning through and grinding them like ants in chisteled dust. He turned to strike the lizard, his own heart beating furiously in both fear and anticipation but at the first chop nothing happened. The charge seemed to dissipate at the creature's chest, with the metal armour almost soaking Sill’s electricity entirely. Jan’s eyes widened further, with his leg quickly being grabbed by the giant to be slammed into the ground once more. On a regular day, the limb would have been shattered in an instant but the scribe was quickly able to shake it off and struggled to his feet a few six or seven meters away.

  The lizard’s eyes twitched. It’s mouth curled while it’s face reeked in a mixture of a sweat and suckling ooze. The infection was rampant over it’s entire body with the green flaky skin almost coallessed in a spray of red.

  The two stared at eachother, waiting for the other to react like statues in a breeze.

  “Get him Commander!!”

  The creatures own skull was near visible with an implant of fleshy, waving tissue vibrating and oscillating back and forth like coral in the sea. The terrifying sight shot a crude feeling of terror into Jan’s heart but Sill’s continuously bickering voice was enough to slap him back into focus.

  “Get him? That’s your advice? Get him!!” Jan coughed as the three more ratlings tried to harpoon him only for him to dodge the shaft and split it in half. The mud comforted him for a short time in a wet blanket.

  “Yes Commander!!! This lizard is no match for us!!”

  Unaware that this was a group venture, Jan stepped backwards and tried to dodge an incoming arrow from the adjacent bandits. The Dalious swung first. A few imperials had clambered out of the pit to aid Jan, soldiers who had been hardened by the time of servitude, mining watchers. One got brushed back like a blade of grass compared to the lizards monstrous claw. The sharpened talon pierced through the corroded bronze like soft leather. The others fell back to cut into the disoriented and now continuously fleeing ratling army.

  “What do you mean us, you’re a rock!!!” Jan coughed while another swing planted itself into his chest.

  Unable to feel the immediate benefit of their superfluous cooperation, Jan continued to struggle like pubescant rock against the avalanche of attacks striking down towards his head. A tinge of blood trickled from the scribes lips and he was quickly blown back five or six feet only to jump back to his feet and let the dirt slide. Filth filled his shoes while Jan gasped for dear life in the cool air. He could tell by the way the dalious swung it was aiming for his head but most importantly sacrificing vital killing blows to shift to non-lethal tactics instead. If not for this factor Jan shuddered to think the results of a single swipe from the creatures monstrous claws.

  “Correction!!!!, I am a rock that just zapped you with the enough power to vanquish entire armies! Commander this lizard is like a fly on the…….

  Great expectations fell short of Jan’s sparse combat vocabulary and he struggled a little more before crying out for help. Aloat and Laura were a short distance away. The two saw him flopping around with the Dalious in an instant with Barka teething to to get her fair swing at the creatures blackened heart. Laura however tossed one of the ratling swords up off from the ground for Jan to catch. The scribe caught the blade just in time to parry a strike from the Dalious’s fists with the slide chaffing along it’s skin and causing green blood to seep from the wound.

  The creature seemed to howl for a moment before punching the air near Jan’s head. It refrained from using its own sword and boxed the surroundings in swift and fleeting motions. Slime-like fists near pummeling his face, Jan in turn dodged mere milliseconds away the creature’s attack. It planted itself into the ground to have the dirt heave.

  The Dalious swung forward. Jan parried again. Then his sword snapped like a twig when ratlings fell upon the blade in a form of primordial self-sacrifice. Their fletching, leeching wounds dribbled more puss as infection turned rampant and almost spurred in tendralic formations across their faces. Their moved seemed impossibly coordinated, timed to the last second as silence stood in place of the once barking orders. Dilated ratlings eyes complemented their beak-like faces and buckteeth with a small contingent of the creatures almost hugging Jan’s legs in an attempt to slow him down. They piled on forming a cluster of bodies that pinned against the scribe while the Dalious punched sporadically.

  Then the horde turned. Even the lizard seemed surprised, at least for a splinter of a second before it too acted out of instinct, following a preset sprawl of commands.

  “Oh, no Commander!!!! Analyzing acetylcholine ratios, seemed they’re interpreting some form of organic signalling hie………”

  The rocks voice was cut off in an instant. Twelve ratlings hugged his body, attempting to do anything to slow Jan down. He let out more of Sill’s electrical strikes, causing them to fry in an instant. The response let him breath for a second before the river of swords diverted almost completely from the imperial army and streamed like a torrential wave towards Jan’s position. Nets were tossed, wrapping Jan’s hands and feet while more and more ratlings thrust themselves forward in crazed frenzy. A single punch from the lizard was enough to break the spines of horses, to bend steel shields or crack entire boulders. Thirty years ago imperial hunters had reported a dalious that had swung so hard it had cracked an entire galleon in half. Today they bounced off Jan’s head like pop-rocks. Imperials watched in shock while a mere human seemingly boxed with a lizard that made a past-time of uprooting trees.

  “Did he just punch a Dalious?” Aloat let out a whisper in the background.

  “Commander! Move to the left I want to get a better frequency!!”

  Fifty Ratlings jumped on the scribe. Each one trying desperately to punch, kick or pound him to oblivion. They seemed to completely discard their knives or sharpened weapons and wrestled him to the ground and a wriggling mass of death.

  “Dodge!! Dodge!!! Move your head Commander!”

  The Dalious stood ontop of the now ground-watering corpses. It slithered more, regaining control from the docile state the infection seemed to sequentially pulse. Then it punched more, with the ratlings hugging Jan’s feet staggering back and forth as he moved. The scribes face reeled back, pain shot through his entire frame, no where to hide as more blood seeped from his lips. Miraculously for every few cuts he sustained they seemed to heal almost instantaneously, the lacerations and bruises reforging into just swathes of warm tissue. More ratlings struggled, almost tugging at him as would loggers a tree. The three foot tall creatures seemed desperate to stop him, tossing their lives like cheap coins in a gamblers den.

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  “Sustaining heavy damage Commander!! Diverted to self-preservation technologies!!! 2% battery remaining!!!!!!”

  Laura was the first to react, Aloat had killed one of Nuem’s bandits and now sent another dagger at an incoming crossbowman. Even Nuem’s heavy calvary and pikeman had seemingly tossed down their weapons in exchange for crossbows, bows and throwing axes, weapons that seemed-like appropriate counters to the vengeful scribe-creature which tore into the ratling ranks. Instruments of war that would have been effective against Jan’s attacks but were erroneously mundane against the imperial shield wall which quickly swept through their ranks.

  In an instant she tossed one of the masterfully crafted vases to have it shatter like glass on the back of a ratlings head. Gas seeped from the chipped pottery with it’s effects blistering the ratling skin and causing swaithes of troops to fall like limp stones to the splotchy ground. The action bought Jan precious seconds of time, allowing him to recover as fresh ratlings simply ignored the gaseous exposure and dove to their deaths. Jan however, seemed to be able to breathe perfectly with short winces of pain.

  “Commander!! Your predecessors would have killed this thing like two seconds ago! It’s basically an ant!!!! Also 2% battery remaining!!!”

  Still confused as to how a mass attack of this scale could only count as two percent of assault or battery, Jan wriggled in the worm-like clutch of the horde. The ratlings had begun to impede themselves; he could feel the spit of the creatures on his breath as more formed a veritable mountain of bodies. The Dalious itself grew impatient, tossing it’s own subordinates fifty or sixty feet in the air in an attempt to reach Jan. It too didn’t seem to mind the gas. Two three ratlings found themselves soaring into the clouds. Laura and Aloat saw this with gaped mouths while the fellow imperials had to find courage to avert their eyes from the scene infront. The ratlings stopped, only regaining consciousness a few milliseconds before their eventual strike into the muddy ground. Then acting on instinct the scribe began to shiver with the sight of the ratlings bodies pressed against him in an attempt to almost smother him into compliance.

  He could see the Dalious toss more of it’s own troops to get closer. The same awkward thrust of power that had sealed Kiff’s fate without a moment's hesitation. Like the soldier before, the creatures had no time to react and even little precious splinters to both relish in sweet sting of betrayal and lament upon the cruelty of an unjust world. The young soldiers face stuck like a blood splatter in the scribes eyes. Full of hope, promise, resolve only to be stolen by the trivialities of fate. The imperials surrounding him were almost completely ignored by the ratlings but still took time to rush forward. They were scared by the sight infront and outright terrified at the events that had just transpired. More lightning seeped from the scribe's hands like water from a broken spout, this time he didn’t hold back.

  Fifty Ratlings lay dead.

  Another hundred stepped forward to take their place.

  Two hundred more stepped over their brethren's corpses.

  Three hundred more followed without hesitation.

  Three hundred ratlings met the same fate.

  Aloat and Laura looked on in awe. The contingent of imperials was both terrified and astonished by the slaughter they bore witness to.

  Four hundred ratlings stepped forth.

  The air sizzeled with lightning seeping through it's veins.

  They seemed to leap from ever nook and cranny, eager to goad the day they could dine in hell. Each carried bent knives, forks, daggers, spears, plywood, stolen imperial gear, anything and everything to hurt the scribe. At a certain point they had stopped using non-lethals and began to change tactics, running in circles and staying in staggered rows to reduce the lightnings chaining.

  “1% Battery Commander!! May I remind you if we run out were are absoluttteeeelllyyyy dead!!!!!!!!!!”

  Even the Dalious seemed to be utterly terrified, it saw the thinning horde with it’s own two eyes as the river parted like a stream on splintered rock and now could barely hobble over the layer upon layer of corpses which caked the muddy field. It barked for a change in tactics, ordering ratlings archers to form ranks instead.

  They ignored his every word.

  The lizard howled over the rows of blood, seemingly hoping to disway the master's commands, but the implants ignored its forked tongue. The ratlings' fleshy parasites subsisted and continued to slather more bile, their unseen leader choosing a way that spent lives a little more cheaply than splattered dirt.

  The Dalious swung again, this time nearly punching through Jan's head.

  “It should be pointed out Commander!!!!!! Our current combat advantage is solely due to the presence of the watchers!! Logic estimates if Nuem’s mages had stayed behind and had the ability to channel I estimate the probability of our success at 0.003……”

  Sill’s helpful and enigmatically jovial words found little reflection on Jan’s now deafened ears. Range was the problem. The Dalious didn’t want to use lethals and currently, his only hope seemed to Jan was waiting for the mage to get tired. A veritably drastic tactic, where sending wave after wave of perishable troops seemed to seal a certain list of punishments in the afterlife.

  “It know’s were low Commander!!!!!”

  “What knows?” Jan nearly choked on a piece of ratling armour as one tried to bite him in the shin only to be stomped by instantaneous reflexes. His sequential moves seemed to be bolstered by the charge within.

  “Their leader, it’s trying to drain our battery, we need to kill the Dalious if we cut the lizard’s head it’s forces will rout!!!!!!!”

  Still clambering over carrion in the now ever-growing ratling death-pile the words fell with little circulatory meaning. The Dalious however seemed pressed towards victory at all costs regardless the parsimonies of price. They moved out of frantic desperation, fervent loyalty and a undying passion for a cause Jan could barely begin to comprehend. Jan stepped to the side and tried to punch the Dalious’s jugular. The creature responded by commanding another six ratlings to pounce upon the scribes arm. It was do or die, and the lizard would ensure that no second of it’s bioengineered life fell upon disservice and dared to bring dishonour upon the master's name.

  “Punnnch Punch Punch Punch haaaaaaaaarder!!!” Sill roared.

  Meanwhile, in an equally tepid and squalour filled pool of mud, Aloat and Laura struggled against the ranged soldiers Nuem left behind. The enemy was painstaking demoralized and would take pot-shots at Jan often to pierce a ratling who had climbed ontop or some equally unfortunate creature instead of properly nailing the scribe in the chest. They shook in fear, eyes caught on the hoards every move and longing for an escape that was so eagerly tasted by those who had left during Nuem’s first call. While a sizable portion of the ratling force still remained, they focused in entirety on Jan with little provision towards any form of secondary attack. This left the ground without a bulk of forces and now scattered both leaderless and destitute.

  The Dalious caught Jan unfocused and slammed into oncemore, causing the scribe to spiral into a ball of robe and blood. In seconds it walked forward and Pile-drived Jan into the ground. Sill took this matter into it’s own hands, this time screaming directly at lizard for the monstrous creature to hear.

  “You’re bugs, you’re bugs!!!!!!! Don’t you understand!! Your master lost, this backwater is all that’s left, Commander Jan is the highest authority on this planet and we owned it before you’re species evolved from a squirmings toad!!!”

  The Dalious didn’t like this and became even more enraged upon hearing Sill’s voice. It teetered on the brink of realization with more ratlings now diving directly towards the pocket where the little rock taunted them in even more sneers.

  Aloat and Laura now fought a tent by tent battle, circulating around the fabric contraptions and remnants of the encampment. Horse tracks laced the ground, but no animals were to be seen, likely all had been taken by Nuem in their retreat. Two bandits pounced on them in an attempt to stab them to death with stolen imperial shortswords to be stopped in an instant, luckily the troops from the pit had begun to free the remaining prisoners from cages above to receive both gratitude and utter confusion. Some had been tied to pires, saved from the inch of death in light of flames. Others waited in poorly contrived wooden or metal cages for an all too similar fate. The two smashed them open easily with others simply breaking through the hastily made ratling jails in seconds now that the guards had vanished.

  Fifty ratlings jumped on Jan's arm.

  They perished in an instant.

  In total a near eighty of the soldiers remained from the hundred that had fought a day before. Contrasting the scattered ratlings and left-behind mercenaries, the sight of a crushed army seemingly resurrecting from the death to drive an overwhelming force into chaos and retreat was a laughable tale of fabricated myth. It seemed too good to be true, too much hope that had cascaded into something tangible. The prisoners glowed with a happiness and fanatic belief enough to move armies.

  “We need to kill the Dalious!!” Laura screamed over the sounds of the battle.

  Aloat nodded.

  “Nah, I think Jan’s got this.. He’ll survive,” She spat rather sarcastically before the other scribe shot her a look that would have made hell churn.

  “Fine, but what do you want us to do because currently the least trustworthy person in our group has placed their entire fate in the granite equivalent of magic beans!”

  Laura could tell Aloat was scared and was trying to vield her thoughts in any kind of mask possible. The two stood with little focus on the problem at hand. Barka surveyed the surroundings, trying ot make sense of the pit seeing it from above for the first time. Laura however analyzed further with her eyes trickling over the tents infront. She had a more serious tone.

  “If you look at the parasite, it seemes to be controlling the ratlings, everytime it’s head squelches the troops move forward.”

  The sheriff agreed before pointing to more of the mudflats.

  “The tents, there has to be something we can use, if they have alchemical bombs they will have more……” Aloat responded frantically.

  At last things slowed down while they cherished minutes of peace.

  “That rock, the one Jan and you have been talking to, you know there’s no way it’s not evil right? I’ve held inainmate, that is not inanimate….if it talks and it doesn’t want money it’s evil, that’s like the first rule in sentient objects!!!!” Aloat coughed.

  The sheriff was in full panic but the other scribe instantly knew she was referring to the famed Earl of Jughaven, a jug that satanicly existed for three centuries and sold peoples soul’s for a remarkably cohesive coin collection. The very least Sill wasn’t a jug….

  “What do you think we’re trying to do? ” Laura wheezed.

  They paused again and stared at the battlefield in contemplation.

  “You two tried to break into an imperial library and read up on it, didn’t you?”

  “What!?” Laura replied frantically.

  “I know your passion for science, you probably thought it was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Look, Longsa told me there was a reason you two were coming. It didn’t take much to coincide reports of break-in happening only a day prior”

  “You need to take it a temple, then we can determine the god of which it pledges allegiance.”

  It was a surprisingly religious sentiment coming from Aloat. Holy sanctimony was a touchy subject with many doubting both the abilities and reliability of priestmages, alongside the veritable stench of corruption that exuded from the prayer house walls. Ten years prior, a blind prediction for victory in a noble house contest had once been bought with only a turkey and three bottles of beer for the Kag’s temple elite. One time, six priests from Gunderwald had spent an entire day setting up enchantments on a special arch in one of Kag's plazas so that only individuals over the age of ten thousand years could pass through. It was meant to forward a feat of intellectual strength in which only those pious and holy could "reflect" upon the wisdom of the elder gods in order to walk past. Jan "accidentally" tripped over a basket of hay and fell right through the arch. Understandably, that removed any inherent value from the relic and uncovered the group as nothing more than scammers and untaxed lowlifes.

  “Or we smash it, burn it, and hand it over to Kag authorities,” Aloat said viciously.

  More shock spread onto the other scribes face.

  “You really trust Kag’s authorities at this point? Look, most of the stuff here is imperial made, whatever is happening right now is more than an inside job!” Laura responded.

  Aloat nodded gruffly. It was a subject they hadn’t wanted to bring up. The thought laced the air for a moment before Aloat finally perked up.

  "We'll think of it this way, I know soldiers in Kag who have spent their entire lives training to use a sword and never swung once."

  “At least we’re going to get to see some combat” She said with a smile.

  Laura gave out an unpleased expression before turning back to Aloat.

  The sheriff's mind laced over training. During the smearling front they had engaged with similar ideas where an oversize kill-happy bug would command near thousands of stick-weilding rock-genlings. It was a terrifying sight, sort of like a giant sentient hangry avalanche, but at the same time they would be prepared. Smearling spears chipped like rotten wood on imperial shields and often it would be a full-war party equipped with watchers, mages, infantry and cavalry. Six months ago she had been on a research detail for Kag’s Academy and witnessed the clearing of a rock-hive firsthand. Whenever one of the larger smearlings excited due to vapors or alchemical clearage, ballistas and other mage driven projectiles would slam into it’s exoskeleton and pin-cushion the creature to squeamish oblivion. However most training details clearly stated without magic the killing of these creatures was near impossible. The great Manchulin generals of past had succeeded to bitter victory often loosing hundreds in a process that would only cost three or four well trained battle-mages. During the ancient sieges of Machulin, after General Waslin had lost his entire mage battalion in the first engagement with the smearing Hivelords, they had still pressed on towards victory. That was madness, clear undeniable slaughter would have met any other troops yet in a way it was almost honourable with smearlings unable to conjure the same magic that had given Waslin an advantage. There were some controversies to as Waslin himself was a mage with remarkable channeling abilities. Still in those writings of old they had used everything to their advantage. Formations, siege engines, brute force craftsmanship, and enhanced logistics formed an endless stream of thought.

  Here, they had nothing but mud and whatever Nuem left behind.

  Aloat barked orders for the surviving imperials to assist Jan before they grabbed ten soldiers for themselves as a form of honour guard. Her confidence returned slightly, getting used to the same shouting as a typical officer in their imperial army.

  The tents were remarkably well-kept. Even the ratling encampments which Laura had expected to be nothing more than a satanic hell-pit seemed to consist of assorted wolf-pelts, primitive tools and burnt out campfires. The personal tents of the bandits were stocked to the brim with gold, quands and assorted treasure, along with the typical belongings of a mercenary. It was so much Aloat had to wonder in awe how their leader had managed to keep the group unsplintered with such spoils at hand. There still was the matter of quands sitting with Oldsgood, the sheer quantity of wealth on display made her stomach quelch. This was coming from a soldier’s whose noble house of birth flaunted ten times the amount to it’s name. Greed however was a powerful motivator that only lengthened with sequential gulps. It was likely the same fools she had left lying face down in the mud had skipped out on a life of riches in the ambition of something greater. The ratling tents were more black fabric, hide stripped from larger creatures of the forest while bandits had stolen imperial or western canvas, likely pilfered from the armoury of some minor house.

  “Over there!!” Laura shouted. She had a few soldiers trailing behind her. More ratlings were either bolting straight towards Jan or heading for the trees.

  “Wait stop!!” Aloat screamed.

  The two edged the ground with Laura’s feet slipping on the edge. Barka had recognized it in a near instant. The fake mesh of leaves and twigs that constituted a pit-trap could be seen.

  “Thanks, I don’t understand, why would they need something like this, weren’t they worried about someone dropping in?” Laura questioned.

  “Calvary”

  “Aren’t we in the middle of the woods? That seems a little ridiculous. Anyone without a torch at night could be impaled in seconds.”

  The two were running now, checking tents as they walked the path.

  “Look I know everything, you can walk your horses, it’s a thing,” Aloat replied unfazed.

  Laura scoffed, Aloat at this point was just making things up to sound like she was under control.

  At last they reached something more interesting. The larger flapped tents contained cookware, supplies, weapon storage and even at last siege equipment. At least twenty or so barrels of liquid, likely alcohol, stood dormant. Laura paused before turning one keg to see what rushed out, getting a stern look from Aloat about the quality of spent time. The shelves for crossbows, bows, and spears had been completely emptied, even hand-axes and throwing spears were taken out in vain. More recently too given how the entire tent looked like it had been ransacked by Nuem’s once orderly troops the instant before the start of fighting. A stray arrow from the battle landed inches from Laura’s head and pierced a barrel behind to have liquid pool. Aloat paused for a moment and let her finger trickle in the stream. A strong sent of herbs shone through; she didn’t dare press it to her lips to taste. Such large quantities would require years to brew and were some of the most valuable possessions an army could have on campaign. If Nuem had any sence of idea of fiscal dignity, he would likely return head over heels at the slightest notice.

  “Is that?”

  “I think it’s a cure for the changeing.”

  “But why would you need so much?” Laura questioned. She was a little hesitant and had the words squelch on her lips.

  The humans in the encampment had no obvious signs of infection, despite spending weeks or months in constant contact with a clearly rancid ratling horde. This was roughly ten or twelve times what a regular army would bring on campaign. In the past, the disease was treated like any regular fungal infection, rare and more of a strange case for doctors to treat two to three times in their lifetime than a daily occurrence. Laura wished Sill were here to shed some form of insight, even though the ancient rock likely would have had some wishy-washy explanation.

  A bit of an awkward silence fell into the tent, one that was quickly washed by the tension of the moment.

  “You know we don’t really talk much?” Aloat muttered.

  Laura struggled to stop laughing at this before the guilt of a death-fighting Jan clouded the back of her mind. Then they turned to see what lay behind the second fabric wall.

  “Mother of armies” the scribe's mouth blanked.

  Both had their eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. The soldiers behind them too gaped in awe.

  “Laura, if we survive this, I think we just found what the troops are going to carry home,” Aloat said with a slight smile.

  Weapons

  Infront was a ridiculous amount of weapons. Absolutely, undeniably, the most humorous number of weapons possible. Nuem had to be a madman to flee a trove like this, it would be ceremoniously equivalent to abandoning your favourite child at the phrephesis of greatness. Enough spears to outfit an entire contingent sat like discarded twigs shed from a sikly tree, imperial breastplates, helmets, cloaks, blankets, daggers, halbards and even powder bombs scattered on the floor like papers after a sharp brush of wind. There were more alchemical bombs, fifty or sixty stacked in a corner like fine wine. Enough caltrops to blanket an entire field were stacked like children's toys in layered crates while standard issue imperial swords along with more Wei-looking sabres lined wooden shelves. At last they paused on what they needed most. A ballista stood in the corner like a veritable hand-cannon. A trivialized weapon that would normally be deemed useless on any standard campaign had become a godsend in place of watchers.

  For the first time in awhile Aloat’s entire face lit up. The maniac was grinning ear to ear.

  “Wait Laura…...big monsters”

  She pointed outside a tear in the tent fabric to Jan who looked like he was getting clobbered by a veritable mountain of enemies and enthusiastically boxing lizard.

  “Unlimited weapons”

  Some adrenaline-craving portion of Laura started to lean forward with the soldiers behind them grabbing hold of the ballista. They tugged and heaved at the great weapon of war with an ecstatic intent.

  “Come on Barka, don’t loose your head, we have a scribe to save.”