The map was spread across a stone table in the underground chamber beneath Golden Tower’s pyramid.
Calling it a map was generous.
It was actually three sheets of bark paper joined together, covered in charcoal markings representing rivers, ridgelines, the edge of the rainforest, settlements, and the ruins of destroyed Chaos camps.
Tekuna had mixed three different inks using powdered minerals.
Black came from charcoal.
Red came from powdered ochre.
Blue came from crushed psychic crystals.
Now, the three colors intertwined across the bark paper like a sprawling web.
At the southern end of that web stood three Lizardmen cities.
At its northern end flowed the Whitewater River.
Beyond the river lay the grasslands.
And on those grasslands, a red circle marked a single location.
Harmstone.
Kroq-Gar placed the tip of one claw on the town.
“The scouts said the Elves surrounded a human city forty li north of here.”
His claw moved an inch farther north.
“Somewhere around here.
We don’t know the exact distance because the scouts didn’t get close enough.
White tents.
Blue banners.
We don’t know whether the city is still under siege or has already fallen.”
Tekuna stood on the opposite side of the stone table, his staff resting against his shoulder.
His golden eyes moved twice between the red marking and the blue river.
Then he scratched a line across his own arm with one claw.
It was something he only did when nervous.
“If the Elves have already taken the city, defeated soldiers and refugees will flood onto the grasslands over the next few days.
They won’t dare flee north.
The Elves are blocking that route.”
“They’ll have only one direction left.”
“South.”
“And south means the Whitewater River.”
“Beyond the river is the rainforest.”
“And Chaos is waiting in the rainforest,” Kroq-Gar finished.
Tekuna nodded.
His eyes stopped moving for a moment.
Then they rapidly spun twice.
“Some of those who stopped fleeing south have already gathered around the abandoned mill outside Harmstone.
If the Elves drive more people south, the mill will become a temporary refuge.”
“But it’s too close to the rainforest.”
“Chaos will smell the humans and come looking for them.”
Kroq-Gar dragged one claw south from Harmstone.
The imaginary line crossed the Whitewater River, passed through the edge of the grasslands, and plunged directly into the rainforest.
At the southern end of that route stood Golden Tower.
Three hundred li separated Harmstone from Golden Tower.
Only forty li separated Harmstone from the city besieged by the Elves.
If the city had truly fallen, fleeing refugees could reach Harmstone within a single day.
From Harmstone to the edge of the rainforest was less than half a day’s journey.
Once the refugees entered the rainforest, Chaos would come for them.
Kroq-Gar had already seen what Chaos did to humans who wandered beneath those trees.
“Bring the hunter here,” Kroq-Gar said.
The old hunter was summoned down from the city walls by a Skink.
He had been helping move stone.
Golden Tower’s reconstruction needed every available pair of hands, and he and his companions had volunteered to work.
A month ago, the man had been little more than skin and bone.
Now he could carry a stone block half his height for dozens of paces without losing his breath.
The rough Cold One leather clothing fit him well.
A short knife forged for him by one of the Skink craftsmen hung from his belt.
When he entered the underground chamber, the smell of lime and stone dust still clung to him.
“My lord.”
He bowed.
He no longer stammered.
“I’m going to Harmstone,” Kroq-Gar said directly.
“You’re coming with me.”
The old hunter froze.
“My lord is going to Harmstone?”
“Not to fight.”
Kroq-Gar tapped the unmarked region north of Harmstone.
“I’m going to bring people back.”
“The Elves are besieging a city somewhere around here.
According to the scouts, people are already fleeing.
Some passed through Harmstone and continued south.
Others stopped near the abandoned mill.”
“If I’m right, more will arrive over the next few days.”
“Harmstone is directly in their path.”
The old hunter looked at him.
“So, my lord intends to…”
“I intend to bring those refugees into the rainforest.”
The hunter opened his mouth.
No sound came out.
“There is Chaos in the rainforest,” Kroq-Gar continued.
“But I’ve already cleared it from this region.”
“Every Chaos camp between Harmstone and Golden Tower has been destroyed.”
“There are no living Chaos creatures within two hundred li.”
“If the refugees enter the rainforest, they won’t find Chaos.”
“They’ll find my patrols.”
“But if they don’t know that, they’ll scatter.”
“Once they scatter, my patrols won’t find all of them.”
“And those we don’t find will eventually encounter whatever remnants of Chaos are still hiding deeper in the forest.”
“I need someone to tell them where to go.”
The old hunter swallowed.
“You want me to tell them.”
“You’re human.”
“They’ll believe you.”
“If I tell them…”
Kroq-Gar looked down at his own three-and-a-half-meter-tall body and his massive, scale-covered arms.
“They’ll run.”
“They’ll run deeper into the rainforest, and Chaos will catch them.”
“You’ll come with me.”
“I’ll wait outside the town with my soldiers.
You go inside.”
“Find the people still living there.
Find those staying near the mill.”
“Tell them which route to take south.”
“Tell them that once they enter the rainforest, someone will be waiting for them.”
The old hunter fell silent.
His lips moved slightly, as though silently repeating a name.
Harmstone.
His home.
A month ago, he had fled from that place.
He had nearly died inside a Chaos cage.
Now he was going back.
This time, he would return alongside a Lizardmen lord and an army of Skinks.
And he would tell those who remained where they could find safety.
“I’ll go.”
His voice wasn’t loud.
But it was steady.
“I remember the name of every family in town.”
“I know which street they lived on.”
“I know which village the refugees near the mill came from.”
Kroq-Gar nodded.
Then he turned toward Tekuna.
“I’ll take one cohort of Skink Javelins.
Light equipment only.”
“The scout captain comes with me.
He knows the route.”
“You remain at Golden Tower and oversee the reconstruction.”
“Do not stop expanding the defenses.”
“If Chaos approaches Golden Tower, light the signal fires on the walls.”
“Your will shall be done.”
Tekuna lowered his head.
Then he hesitated.
“My lord, one cohort of Skinks may be too few.
If you encounter Elven scouts…”
“One hundred and sixty Skinks.”
Kroq-Gar rose from beside the stone table.
His head nearly touched the stone ceiling.
Under the faint glow of the psychic runes, his enormous body cast a shadow across most of the map.
“And me.”
“If the Elves decide to stop me, the difference between one hundred and sixty Skinks and sixteen hundred won’t matter.”
“The Elves won’t stop me.”
Kroq-Gar paused.
“They’ve never seen me before.”
Tekuna opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
The Skink Priest silently performed a calculation.
If a group of Elves encountered a three-and-a-half-meter-tall, scale-covered Lizardmen lord wielding an ancient divine spear for the first time, their immediate reaction probably wouldn’t be to stop him.
It would probably be to wonder what in the world they were looking at.
And by the time they finished wondering, the three-and-a-half-meter-tall Lizardmen lord would already have crossed their blockade.
Preparations took only the time needed to burn a stick of incense.
One cohort of Skink Javelins was immediately assembled.
They had just completed a rotation.
Their javelins had been freshly sharpened.
The chips left in their shields from the previous battle had already been repaired.
When they heard they were heading north with Lord Kroq-Gar, several Skinks at the front of the formation immediately began chattering among themselves about what Elves looked like.
The scout captain carried a leather pouch on his back and took the lead.
The old hunter rode a Cold One, carrying a bundle of dried meat and a spare bark-paper map.
Kroq-Gar stood just inside the city gate.
An elderly Skink Priest was carving a purification rune into the scales of his shoulder.
This time, the liquid wasn’t ordinary psychic solution.
It was a clear blue mixture infused with powdered cerussite.
“My lord, this is Sotek’s charm for journeys north.”
The old priest stepped back after finishing the rune.
“It will only remain on your scales for three days.
After that, you must return and have it renewed.”
He took another two steps backward and nearly tripped over a Skink crouching behind him.
Kroq-Gar looked down at the freshly carved rune on his shoulder.
Blue light flowed across it for a moment.
Then it faded into stillness.
He didn’t need a protective charm.
But the old priest had insisted that before his lord crossed beyond the boundaries of the rainforest for the first time, he personally had to carve the rune.
Kroq-Gar hadn’t refused him.
“Move out.” This chapter is updated first at g.com.
His deep voice rolled across the inner side of the city walls.
The Skinks immediately stopped chattering.
They marched.
The footfalls of the Cold Ones blended with the faint scraping of Skink tails across the stone road.
The lightly equipped column passed through the city gate.
They crossed the stone breach that had once been covered in Chaos fungus but was now clean.
Then they disappeared north into the morning mist of the rainforest.
Three hundred li separated Golden Tower from the Whitewater River.
A lightly equipped force could move much faster than a heavy infantry formation.
Skinks had short legs.
But those legs moved incredibly fast.
They could cover forty or fifty li in a single two-hour march.
The Cold Ones possessed even greater endurance.
The one carrying the old hunter maintained a rapid pace for most of the day, stopping only briefly at the Whitewater River to drink.
Kroq-Gar occasionally slowed down to allow the Skinks to catch up.
But he never allowed the marching pace to become too relaxed.
Whenever he slowed, the Skinks behind him simply looked through the gaps in the canopy for the enormous moving silhouette ahead and adjusted their direction.
The scout captain led from the front.
His gray scales appeared and disappeared among the undergrowth.
Every few li, he stopped to carve a marker into a tree trunk.
Kroq-Gar felt the exact moment the rainforest began to thin.
It wasn’t something he saw.
The trees were still trees.
But the air had changed.
The damp scent of decaying vegetation was diluted by a drier, more open breeze.
The wrongness of Chaos corruption disappeared completely.
In its place came the smell of dry grass.
Sunlight.
And the faint scent of cooking fires drifting from somewhere far away.
The Whitewater River appeared before them.
The river was shallow.
Its water was so clear that they could see the bottom.
Smooth, rounded pebbles gleamed beneath the flowing current.
Beyond the opposite bank stretched an endless expanse of rolling grasslands.
Yellow and green intertwined across the plains.
When the wind blew, the grass rolled like waves upon a sea.
At the distant edge of the grasslands, Kroq-Gar could just make out a thin trail of white smoke.
Not the black smoke of Chaos.
Ordinary woodsmoke.
Harmstone.
The Cold Ones waded across the river.
Their feet sent pebbles clattering beneath the water.
The Skinks followed.
They were small enough that the water reached their chests.
A few of the shorter ones simply started swimming.
Beyond the river lay the grasslands.
For the first time, Kroq-Gar stepped onto the soil of the open plains.
It was nothing like the soft, damp earth of the rainforest.
The ground here was dry and firm, bound together by countless grass roots.
It felt solid beneath his feet.
Kroq-Gar looked down at the deep footprint he had left in the earth.
Then he raised his head toward Harmstone.
“Scout Captain.”
The gray-scaled Skink appeared beside his feet.
“Go ahead and investigate.”
“If there are people near the mill, don’t frighten them.”
“Observe from a distance.”
“Wait until I arrive.”
The scout captain gave a sharp hiss.
Two other Skinks followed him.
Within moments, all three vanished into the tall grass.
Kroq-Gar turned toward the old hunter.
The man climbed down from the Cold One.
He stood upon the grasslands.
Then he took a deep breath.
His eyes reddened slightly.
Not because he was crying.
The wind was stronger here than beneath the rainforest canopy.
It whipped at his rough leather clothes.
He stared at the distant trail of white smoke.
His lips moved.
“What do you smell?” Kroq-Gar asked.
“…Wheat straw.”
The old hunter’s voice trembled.
“Someone’s burning wheat straw in the fields.”
“That field…”
“That should belong to the old blacksmith.”
“The one who lost an eye.”
His voice grew hoarse.
“He’s still alive.”
Kroq-Gar looked toward the distant smoke.
“Then let’s go.”
He began walking.
The Skinks formed a marching column behind him.
Dry grass cracked beneath Kroq-Gar’s enormous feet.
In the distance, the white smoke rising above Harmstone grew closer with every step.