Interlude: Legends IV

“One hundred ninety-nine: this list began with the simplest of axioms, the first. In the years since others like you have added to or taken away from it, a chain that goes back further than any of us know, changing and twisting as it grows. In time no two list will be the same, save always in this one regard: there is no two hundredth axiom. That place remains empty, so that once you learn something worth passing down you may fill it yourself. Look forward, as we once did, and let those who come after you learn from our mistakes. What greater gift can there be?”

– “Two Hundred Heroic Axioms”, author unknown

It would be a balancing act in two parts.

The first was the war without, the battle against the Dead King. The Black Knight had learned from yesterday’s fighting, undone as it had come, but so had the enemy. Still Waters had been revealed, its strength against the Dead King’s armies laid bare, and even as High Marshal Nim had adjusted her tactics so had the ancient lich. Though he could not stop her dead soldiers from rising as wights, the trails of alchemy once dropped over enemy formations to turn them wild had lost effect: the skeletons and ghouls simply dropped once touched by the compound. A Wolofite mage by the name of Kendi Akaze had theorized the effect was automated, added to sorcery that had raised the undead, and Lady Seriff had confirmed it after a few experiments.

It made the weapon more lethal, true, but took away from it the most useful property: being able to turn Keter’s numbers against it. Akaze, who must have impressed the cantankerous old mage, had been drafted as her assistant while she tried to find a way to exploit the Dead King’s most recent spellwork. It had smacked of an apprenticeship in the making to all witnesses. The Black Knight hoped for their success, as she could use the help: Keter had learned how turn the advance up the avenue leading to the inner wall into a murderous slog. Nearly half the undead mages in the city had been concentrated in the path of their offensive, hitting away at the flying fortresses with rituals to keep them away so they couldn’t lend support, and worse still was the engines.

The last third of the avenue was a road no more, a space of collapsed houses three miles wide and two long having been created, and the reason why was clear: batteries of siege engines were bristling on the inner wall, waiting to hammer away at any soldiers that began to walk across the open, broken grounds before the rampart.

The second was the war within, the struggle for the Praes that was to be. There were parts of the land that did not even yet know the Dread Empire was now the Confederation and the Black Knight knew well how fragile the bargains struck in the Tower’s dying light still was. It stood only so long as the Warden loomed tall over all the schemers hungry for more, so long as the Legions of Terror remained the greatest army in the land. Else when they all came home, the High Lords might look at a weakened force under Nim and the chancellor and decide that perhaps they wanted to be Dread Emperor after all. That supreme rule was worth the risks of a war. They had all agreed to disband all armies save the Legions, but how much was their word really worth?

So the Black Knight must make sure none of them thought they’d be able to win that war, when temptation came calling. That meant spending their house troops, their levies, and preserving the strength of her legions. Only it could not be obvious, or wasteful, for otherwise they would be well within their rights to rebel at such treatment – for all that the private armies were now officially auxiliaries under the Legions, the way their noble commanders still led them proved how thin a pretence that truly was. So Nim must balance need and dues, all the while keeping her eye on what must be done to win the battle without lest the battle within ruin it. 

It was a difficult exercise, but the Black Knight had found that she was equal to it. Her Name burned at the challenge, alive in a way it had never been when Amadeus still lived and his shadow was still cast over all who would wear his old mantle. It was one decision after another, another puzzle to move around until all the pieces fit the right way.

“The Fourteenth is getting mauled,” her Staff Tribune told her. “Their mages are being tied down by hexenghouls so buzzards can land behind the ranks. They’re too far out on the flank, ma’am, it could turn south on us.”

The flying constructs would open their belly when they laded, spewing out the cargo of undead they’d carried and so effectively cutting off the Fourteen from the rest of Nim’s forces. Or at least potentially so, if they were allowed to build up numbers long enough. Best to take care of that quickly.

“Inform High Lord Dakarai that he is to commit the wavemen,” the Black Knight said. “Free use of enchanted arrows is allowed.”

Nok’s archers, the finest in all of Praes, should be able to clear out the enemy with concentrated volleys if they had permission to dip into fire arrows. Her Staff Tribune nodded, committing the words to memory.

“And send word to the Old Mothers,” she calmly added. “When the dead turn their rituals on the wavemen, I want the fortresses to unleash their full spellfire volume at the enemy cabals while they’re open.”

It happened as she had foreseen, and even as the Black Knight’s Name smiled coldly and smoke rose from the ranks of the wavemen, her vanguard – Aksum’s forces, nearly half of which were wights by now due to attrition – pushed forward three blocks during the lull in enemy spells.

“The grounds were trapped ahead of the vanguard,” her Staff Tribune told her. “Pit traps and caltrops. Beorns are hitting Aksum over them while the ranks are in disarray.”

Pit traps that the wights would fall into blindly, caltrops that would tear through the too-light foot armour of the Aksum levies when they tread on them. Beorns, massive distended bear constructs that they were, would be able to ignore both and spit out the dead they carried straight into the wavering Aksumite ranks.

“Send word to High Lady Abreha to withdraw,” Nim said.

“The beorns will trample all over her retreat,” her Staff Tribune noted. “Casualties will be steep.”

“They’ll rout before long anyway,” the Black Knight said. “But while her levies are being rampaged over, tell General Sacker she is free to fire with her ballistae while the Ninth replaces the vanguard. Unravellers included, after a round of ranging shots.”

The unravellers would quickly end the constructs, and the Ninth was still heavy on sappers compared to most legions: there was no better force at her command to get rid of the traps and unearth further ones. A high number of goblins, though, would mean a degree of fragility.

“Have one of the fortresses pass over the streets in front of the traps,” she added, frowning. “Still Water the area.”

That should allow Sacker long enough to clear the mess before being hammered. It went better than the Black Knight had thought it would: Abreha unleashed beasts she had been keeping in reserve to protect her retreat, slinking panthers made of shadow whose claws rent constricts asunder as they moved across the battlefield like ghosts. The beorns began lashing out blindly, leaving them easy prey for the ballistae, and the Ninth struck fast in the wake of the flying fortress’ path. The army pushed up another four blocks, and now High Marshal was so close to the open grounds she could taste it.

“The Levantines report movement at our back,” her Staff Tribune said. “Lady Osena requests instructions.”

“Tell her to dig in behind us,” Nim grunted. “We’ll need them to handle the rearguard while we storm the inner wall.”

The tall ogre cast a frown at the battlefield, watching as the Ninth clawed its way up another block and General Wheeler’s Eighth gained ground on the left flank. Too much, she thought. Keter was folding too quickly, though on the ground it must have looked only like a successful push. The Eighth’s cognomen was not ‘Trailblazers’ without reason, however, and given ground to take they would take it all too fast. Someone on the other side had read Wheeler just right. The order for the goblin general to pull back was on the tip of her tongue, but then she thought twice.

“Tell Wheeler to push…” she trailed off, gauging the distance with her eye, “half a mile forward, then lean on his sappers to blow through the houses and turn straight south instead.”

That way the Eighth would hit the position the Ninth was about to ruin itself on from the side, enough to relieve the pressure and allow Sacker to break through without ruining herself. More importantly, the half mile forward would make room for another maneuver.

“And inform High Lord Sargon that Wolof is to fill the gap when the Eighth swings south,” the Black Knight smiled. “He is free to use sorcery as he wills so long as he pushes no further.”

And if the High Marshal was reading the timing right Wheeler would get out of the trap just before its jaws closed, just in time for Sargon Sahelian to be left holding the bag instead. Wolof would react to the assault with massed sorcery, as they always did, which in turn would clear masses of skeletons quickly enough that the Eighth would be pivoting into surprised enemies whose reinforcements would be delayed.

“I’ll see it done, Lady Black,” her Staff Tribune swore.

On this last one, Black Knight saw, she had been a little off. The Eighth did get out in time, but it was actually too early: the first moments of the pivot, as sappers blasted through houses so that ranks of regular could advance through the rubble, were severely punished by the enemy. The sappers took a beating. But when Wolof moved into place and the enemy trap was sprung – shallow tunnels were revealed in a loose circle around the Wolofite position, a horde emerging in moments – the ensuring storm of sorcery did as she had foreseen. With the pressure alleviated, Wheeler broke through and struck hard at the enemy flank while Sacker pushed up the avenue.

Five blocks in half an hour, and as the Black Knight watched with a cold smile her vanguard finally reached the open grounds under the siege engines that the dead had prepared to break her army. It was time, then. Nim Mardottir’s fingers closed around the haft of her war hammer and she rose to her feet. She would lead from the front, now, lead the assault on the wall. But before that, she would show Keter why it was that she had kept her flying fortresses back the entire battle.

“Staff Tribune,” the Black Knight said, “pass my order to all fortresses.”

“Ma’am?”

“Sunset,” she said. “Begin immediately.”

And as the order went up, the massive floating castles began to move. Forward, at first, but then downwards. Streaks of magic shot up from the ground, Keter’s rituals pounding away at the stone and protective enchantments. They tore out chunks, blew through walls and burned hundreds alive. Even crashed one of the smaller towers. Yet most of them kept moving, kept coming down, and as the Black Knight rested her hammer against her shoulder she watched the massive piles of stone land with such thundering crashes they would never rise again. The first of the Old Mothers landed in front of the inner wall’s gatehouse, the fortress gate facing the Dead King’s own, and the rest of the castles fell like a curtain behind the enemy wall.

To cut it off from reinforcements just before the Praesi assault began.

The Black Knight of Praes raised her war hammer, and half a hundred thousand voices screamed themselves hoarse. Forward they went, to find one of the two fates the Wasteland taught its children: victory and death.

Hanno could not save everyone.

The world was not so simple that strength alone would be enough to ends all its ills, chase pain and misery out of Creation like spring leaning. He could not even save everyone in front of him, he was forced to admit as he moved from struggle to struggle across this cursed city of the dead and dying. For every man he arrived in time to keep from the enemy’s blades another died, be it to arrow or poison or the fangs of some howling ghoul. It was like trying to put out a forest fire with a cup of water. But still he tried, grasping tight that moment of clarity he had found when he cast aside the coin. Even if it was hard, even if it was thankless, he would act. He would not be able to save everyone, but that was never an excuse not to try.

So Hanno of Arwad picked up his cup and fought the blaze, undaunted, until Creation saw fit to acknowledge his conviction: Save, his soul sang out.

It was as if he’d opened his eyes for the first time. All around him he felt the war between doom and hope, the balance of victory and defeat between them, and for all that all of Keter was balance on the precipice of catastrophe he had never seen anything so beautiful. Hundreds of thousands from all over Calernia had come to this place, this day, and in the face of the darkness they fought tooth and nail to turn back the tide. It was like watching a sea of candles warring on the night.

And when Hanno saw the balance moved towards doom, his body began to move before his mind had even come to the decision. He cut through the streets and across rooftops, snatching life back from death where he could, until he found the battle to be won. Rozala Malanza, hard-eyed and defiant as she faced a Revenant with nothing more than banner and bravery, was to give her life to save Procer. And it might succeed, Hanno knew, for a time. But the world would darken for her passing and he could stop it, so he did. It felt natural to step in, to break the Revenant’s arm and boil its inside in a flash of Light. Never before had the Light come so easy to his call or his body been so light. The aspect, he decided. It was not simple sight.

Within moments of the Revenant ending, Hanno saw the tide begin to turn again to the north. Doom was clawing back the day, so the hero moved again. Save, his soul sang, and he raced against the dark. Hadn’t he all his life?

It was not a straight path. Again and again he went to the side, cradling another flame against his palms so it would not blow out. A handful of conscripts surrounded in a ditch, fighting under a dipping banner. A lone fantassin in a garish striped vest of orange and green, drowning in their own blood as a Revenant speared their limbs – and coming into a Name as Hanno cauterized their wound with Light, gasping out in pain. A company of Nicaeans being trampled by a tusk, a pair of Helikeans desperately fighting to bring back the unconscious body of a woman in general’s armour. Delosi mercenaries grimly protecting a stripe-cheeked corpse from an onslaught of ghouls. Each a candle, an inch of Creation reclaimed from the dark.

Doom was approaching, strengthening, so Hanno lengthened his stride. He did not even break it when he smashed through a pack of hexenghouls, pulling one off a richly armoured Taghreb girl just before it sank its fangs into her throat. Even as she called out in relief and surprise he kept moving, ignoring her shouts and that of be beleaguered retinue to duck under an arch just before it fell and blocked the way across the street. He grabbed a loose stone jutting out from a wall, using it to drag himself up on the roof just in time to see a bearded man and an old woman in robes dissecting a corpse atop rooftiles turned to glass. Their cries of triumph turned into dismay when miasma came pouring out, Hanno loosing a spear of Light into the cloud without batting an eye.

It dispersed and leapt down the roof before they could even see his face, landing on a beorn’s back and carving through the construct’s head. It collapsed forward, sliding down the sloped street and bringing him right before the ragged ranks of a warband of painted Levantines. They parted ranks as he jumped past them and sped up, feeling the call to be so very close now. He turned the corner fast enough his boot slid in the ash, eyes already on the fight ahead of him. The two of them fought back-to-back. Aquiline Osena moving in a sinuous blur of green and bronze, hooked sword blunt from having hewn too many heads open. Razin Tanja in grey and crimson, patient and measured as he killed in sharp strikes. The dead were swarming them, a battered warband collapsing around the lovers as skeletons climbed over the corpses of hundreds of Levantines.

An ambush had been sprung here, the Dead King come to take the lives of the Blood. One of you could live, Hanno thought, if they ran for it. But you never even thought of it, did you?

His aspect pounding inside of him like a marching drum, Hanno charged in. It was a blur as he moved with Light shivering down his legs, darting forward between blows as he smashed his way through the ranks of the dead. They began to throw themselves at him, to slow him down and tangle his legs, but Hanno let out a grunt and flared Light. His veins burned but the undead fled the pain, leaving him just enough room to push through and then… three steps and he swung, arm outstretched as the very tip of his sword brushed the arrow’s side. Enough to foul it, enough that it went wide instead of going through Razin Tanja’s open mouth. Hanno laughed, triumphant, for the tide was turning against doom.

He had saved candles, today, but these two felt like a torch.

“Retreat,” Hanno told them.

“Lord White,” Lady Aquiline said, “I give honour to your deed, but there are too many for-”

“There could be a thousand more,” Hanno of Arwad said, “and today it would not be enough. Retreat, my lady of Tartessos. They will not pass by me.”

He turned towards the tide, smiling, and flicked his sword to batter a javelin aside as the dead surged forward. Hanno returned to the fight, like a sword returning to the anvil, and in the back of his mind the song began again. Save, it prayed.

The day was not over, and neither was the labour of his hands.

When so many Named fought, it was near impossible to keep track of everything.

Akua had only added near because the Carrion Lord had been famous for doing exactly that and Catherine was slowly reaching those heights herself. She herself did not have that capacity, to her displeasure, so instead of frittering away her focus the sorcerers kept to her objective: collapsing the defences around the ward anchor. The house where she believed that the stone would be held had no entrance, large stones having been dragged to cover all of them, and there Akua believed she had found a weakness. Walls and even roof tiles could be enchanted defensively with some degree of strength, but a slab of stone? Not anywhere as well.

Knowing she would not twice get an opening, Akua waited for her moment. The Vagrant Spear was keeping the Twins busy, killing them almost fast as they came back to life as her spear blurred too swiftly for the naked eye to follow, and the Red Knight had barreled into the pack of Revenants that had chased Indrani and Akua for half an hour before this: all of them armed with spears and bedecked in bronze armour, they moved with eerie coordination. The sorcerers suspected only one of them had actually been Named but that an aspect was being used to share their strength, not that it seemed to matter to the Red Knight.

Devour,” she snarled, ripping out a chunk of the necromancy keep the undead moving.

The strength she’d stolen healed the gut wound she’d taken from a spear and with scornful laughter the villainess began hammering into the Revenants again. Rooftops to Akua’s left kept shattering as the Lord of Silent Steps chased a wary Seelie, keeping her out of the fight as Archer and the Harrowed Witch tried their luck with the war anchor’s guardian: a broad woman in gaudy golden plate wielding an equally golden armour, her open-faced helmet adorned with a red feather. Indrani was being thrown off the roof again, but the Harrowed Witch moved her spectre in the way to catch her and toss her back into the fight. It was, Akua decided, as good an opening as she was likely to get.

Though it felt uninspired and somewhat pedestrian to use an entropy curse when the Dead King had displayed a greater work along the same lines in this very city, it was the best tool Akua had to remove the stone slab before the door. She did not speak the incantation, remaining hidden as she cast. It struck suddenly, withering first the magic the stone had been filled with in order to harden it and only then beginning to hollow out the slab from the inside. This, naturally, drew attention. The golden Revenant, ignoring Indrani’s knife as it scraped harmlessly against her armour, leapt down from the roof and ran towards her.

“A source detection array, I see,” Akua noted. “Unfortunate.”

She raised her wrists, speaking three words of power, and flicked them at the golden nuisance. The Revenant ducked into an empty house, but Akua hardly minded as he true target – the hollowed out stone – exploded in a burst of shard.

“Ivah,” Akua shouted. “The anchor.”

The golden Revenant then burst through the wall to her left, which Akua would admit to surprising her a tad, but Indrani had it in hand. Archer, thrown by the Witch’s spectre, landed on the Revenant’s back. She began stabbing at the golden wretch’s helmet, and for once the Revenant bothered to defend herself. Her hands were covering her head and Akua’s eyes narrowed even as Indrani was tossed through a doorway on the other side of the street, ferociously cursing all the way. The golden-armoured halberdier lowered her weapon at Akua, who had yet to move so much as an inch.

“Proceran, were you?” the golden-eyed sorceress drawled.

The golden Revenant charged, batting aside a spectre and in the same swing an arrow Archer had shot at her. Akua, instead of panicking as the distance closed, raised two hands and began to incant a simple fire cantrip even as her other hand traced a High Arcana rune. She unleashed the strong spell first, a burst of force that the halberdier took head on. It slowed the Revenant just enough for the second spell to land even as the halberd pierced forward towards Akua. A small flame caught the red feather, which turned to ash in a heartbeat. And in the heartbeat after that, the golden halberd and golden plate also turned to ash.

“You must have been,” Akua mused, “for only a Jaquinite wizard would have added such a painfully obvious unravelling clause to an artefact. Gods Below, I’ve seen greater subtlety from Callowan nobles – and their idea of trickery is a massive cavalry charge from the back instead of the front.”

Admittedly it was somewhat embarrassing how often that trick had defeated Praesi armies, but that was neither here nor there. The half-globe of forced revealed by traces of dust suddenly flickered and died as Ivah finished what she had requested of him, the ward collapsing without its anchor, and the Dead King proved to be a sore loser when the Tumult dropped another column of lightning atop that house. Ivah would survive, she had not doubt. Mighty of its strength were exceptionally difficult to kill by conventional means. The once-golden Revenant was still charging at her, but Akua raised her wrists again and she threw herself to the side – never noticing that Akua had never actually called on magic before Archer leapt into the whole to return the beatings she’d had doled out to her earlier in the fight. Throwing out a set of transparent shields around herself out of caution, Akua began to walk down the street.

Helping the Vagrant Spear out should end this faster, she mused, and then they could get out of here before more Scourges showed up. She dismissed half her shield, beginning the incantation for a curse of withering, and then one of the enchanted gems under her armour shattered as a protective spell tool the strike that should have severed her spine. Akua spun wildly, tossing a ball of flame in the Seelie’s face, but all it did was break an illusion. A strike that should have slipped between her ribs killed another gem, her last before she began bleeding, and there she landed a spell that blew a stream of heated ashes in the Scourge’s face. Only the Seelie hadn’t ducked because she doing something else: cutting off one of the straps keeping the box on Akua’s back.

No,” she hissed, sword clearing the scabbard as she wildly swung the box rattled at her back.

The Crown of Autumn would not break, but if they got to the box… Archer burst out of the house, blades out, and Akua saw it all unfold with clarity. The Seelie ripped the box off her back as Akua slashed across her face, the metal contained landing on the street. There was a whistling sound as the missiles of the javelineer Revenant, which she’d thought destroyed by the Red Knight earlier, began to fall. And even as Akua screamed out an incantation, the Seelie’s knife whipped about and slid past her guard. It would open her throat. Archer stilled for a moment, halfway there, as they both saw the same thing: a javelin would hit the box. The crown. And Indrani could not be at two places at once.

Akua breathed out, closing her eyes.

Only she did not die. Instead as she sucked in a desperate breath the Seelie was tossed aside like a rag doll, Indrani getting in between the two of them, and with utter horror Akua watched as a javelin puncture the metal box. Went straight through, as if it were parchment, and these were not the javelins from earlier. This one was black stone, like the steles the Dead King sometimes used, and as Akua watched with dread as it craved through the crown itself. Cut it cleanly in half, two ornate half-circles of bronze. She went still as a stone even as there were shouts of surprise, Revenants withdrawing from the fight all over. They fled, leaving the two of them looking down at a disaster that might well kill every soul on Calernia.

Archer was the one who broke the silence.

“I don’t regret it,” she said, almost defiant.

“My life was not worth this,” Akua said, throat tight. “Indrani, Gods. It could not have been worth this.”

“I’d do it again,” her friend said.

And for once in her life, Akua Sahelian believed every word of what she had been told.

There were few places on a battlefield more dangerous to be than inside a siege tower.

The finest engineers of the Legions had spent decades trying to make them less of a death trap, experimenting with materials and protections and spell shielding, but in the end the essence of what a siege tower was wouldn’t change: a slow, tight box advancing in the direction of enemies with the means to shoot holes into it. The entire tower rattled as yet another spell hit it in the belly, the Black Knight’s fingers tightening around her hammer as she heard wood crack and screams erupt. The enemy had cracked the shell. Nim kept her dismay off her face so that her retinue would not see it, chewing the inside of her cheek and prayed that the tower had made it close enough to the rampart the enemy would not have enough time to topple it.

Another shudder beneath her feet as hoarse shouts filled the air and magic crackled, the dead and that of the Legion mages. Nim could smell smoke, which had her stomach clenching. The wood of the tower had been made proof to conventional fire, but that was not what Keter was wielding. If the flames caught… She would have trust in her mages and sappers to be able to put it out. As if to reward the thought, a moment later there was a shout from upstairs.

“READY!”

The Black Knight allowed herself a smile, steadying her footing as the ogres around her did the same. A  heartbeat later, there were to metallic clangs in quick succession. The first came as the wall before her fell down, turning into a bridge that led straight into a rampart filled with undead. The second came as a pair of hooks slammed down onto the top of the wall, anchoring the siege tower to it. Further down there would be steel spikes jutting out to the same purpose, enchanted so they would be able to sink into even warded stone, but the High Marshal did not wait to hear their song. Instead she strode forward, hammer in hand, and brushed past her soldiers to charge into the midst of the enemy.

To fight the likes of these was as reaping wheat.

Every swing of her hammer shattered a handful, and as her personal guard charged in her wake the enemy ranks vanished like mist. Nim barely even drew on her Name, relying on simple strength and training, but like so many before them the dead crumbled under ogres’ hammers. It could not have taken longer than thirty heartbeats for them to clear out a foothold, and the Black Knight felt oddly cheated: she could not have swung her weapon more than a dozen times. She cast a look further down the rampart, seeing three of the five other siege towers had made it to the wall. The other two were wrecks, one afire and spilling out corpses.

“Secure the wall,” the Black Knight roared. “Hammers, with me! We take the gatehouse.”

The fighting there was fiercer, she could tell already. The stone was shaking from the impact of the enchanted ram hammering at the gate through the crashed fortress’ entrance, but atop the crenelled gatehouse a furious melee had burst out. Even the waves of fire and lighting from atop the crashed fortress were not enough for the Taghreb household troops to gain the advantage, matched as they were by withering curses and a monstrous new kind of ghoul. Even as the Black Knight hurried into the fight, she grimaced at the sight of a flesh-red ghoul devouring a corpse and soon after beginning to vomit out another ghoul.

It wasn’t those the High Marshal sought, though, as her guard smashed into the enemy’s flank and shattered the shield wall hastily raised in their path. Leading the enemy ranks was a tall silhouette, a Revenant in garish blue scale mail wielding a long barbed spear. He was kept snatching the lives of Taghreb officers, spreading panic so their ranks wouldn’t form up, and the Black Knight would have no more of it. A ghoul snapped at her heels but she batted it away with the back of her hand, tramping skeletons beneath her feet as she charged. The Revenant turned even as she raised her war hammer, spear darting out, but Nim kicked a skeleton into the way – and, while the bones blocked the Revenant’s sight, smashed it from the side.

It took the blow in the shoulder, but to her surprise did not crumple. That blue armour must be enchanted, and though the Revenant was tossed a dozen feet back it landed on its feet and was back on the move in a heartbeat.

“Fine,” the Black Knight growled. “The hard way, then.”

It feinted high but Nim had fought spearmen before and saw the thrust coming for her knee. Humans always through ogres were slow with their limbs, because of the weight, but that was only half true. The Black Knight might not move as quick, but she covered a lot more ground: a flick of the wrist had her hammer’s shaft swatting aside the spear. She added a second hand to the length of wood and turned the movement into a twirl that came down right on the Revenant’s head, hammering it onto the floor. Its knees bent, but that helm must have been enchanted too for it did not break. It didn’t matter. That heartbeat where it was as a hammered nail had been all she needed: she dropped her weapon, instead grabbing it by the throat.

The Revenant stabbed away at her but the angle was all wrong, the barbed spear sliding off the side of her plate as the Black Knight grunted with exertion. One hand on the throat and the other on the body she pulled, pulled until there was a wet cracking sound. The Revenant screamed, its spear rending deep scars into her armour, but Nim let out a roar of triumph as finally she ripped the undead apart: the head went off like a rag doll’s, the bones having broken where the armour would not. She held up the body as a banner, her guard roaring back and the fervour spreading into the beleaguered Taghreb ranks. At this rate, she thought, the gatehouse would be theirs in half an hour. After that all that was left was to push into the inner city and…

It was a pull at her hand that save her land, an instinct that had her moving before her body could know it should. She got the blue-armoured corpse in the way, the greatsword shattering the scales and still managing to knock her off her feet through it. She fell, crushing a skeleton and a Taghreb levy under her as she reached for her hammer and swung wildly at the silhouette standing over her. The Prince of Bones contemptuously took the blow on the side of his massive blade and swung back a riposte that ripped Nim’s helm off her head along with a chunk of her brow. A blast of fire rocked the Scourge as she swallowed a hiss of pain and scrabbled back to her feet.

The Prince of Bones. How the Hells had she missed the largest of the Revenants sneaking up on her? Illusion, had to be. Which meant she was fighting two dangerous foes instead of one.

“Rituals on my position,” the Black Knight shouted, trusting in her subordinates to carry the word.

The Scourge swept forward through its own soldiers, heedless of what it broke, and Nim warily stepped back as she wiped away the trails of blood getting into her eye. The Prince of Bones’ sword rose, but behind her magic crackled and the Black Knight grunted in satisfaction: waves of fire slammed down on their position, not doing much to either of them as it incinerated skeletons left and right. But as the smoke and ash billowed outwards, the outline of a cloaked figure behind the Scourge was revealed. The illusionist. Wasting no time, Nim circled around the looming Prince and made straight for the other Revenant.

It was backpedalling in a hurry, throwing at her spells that burned searing lights into her eyes and filled her ears with cacophonous noise, but the Black Knight grit her teeth and barreled through. Batting aside the ghouls in the way with a flick of her hammer, she pivoted into a downwards swing – in time for the instinct to pull at her again. She threw herself back, abandoning the hammer, and through the pack of ghouls already swarming her exposed head saw that large greatsword swinging through where she’d just stood. The ritual exposed nothing, she realized. It was an illusion all along. She’d been played. Tearing off the ghouls nipping at her face, their fangs tearing up her thick skin, she rolled to the side as the Prince of Bones struck powerfully enough to shatter the stone beneath the blow. But how could she trust her eyes? Any moment now there could be a killing stroke, a-

A burst of blinding Light darkened her vision for a moment, but through her squint she saw a man tear into the enemy’s side, ignoring ghouls to strike at a particular skeleton. And as Hanno of Arwad’s blade sent the hidden Revenant’s head tumbling, all illusions shattered and Nim realized she was again about to die. The blow took her in the shoulder, black plate crumbling as the blade’s edge failed to cut but still hit with crushing strength. The Black Knight screamed hoarsely and grabbed the Scourge’s sword hand as it pulled back, knowing another blow would be the end of her. The Prince shifted his footing but Nim often sparred with other ogres. She knew what it meant in an opponent her size.

She half-rolled out of the way of the punch and used the opening to catch the throat rim of the Prince of Bones’ armour – and its head, she thought, somehow seemed made of newer steel than the rest – to drag herself up. Pitting strength against strength she wrestled down its limbs, but it was a losing fight. The Scourge was heavier than her and implacable: her arms burned, her legs trembled, and inch by inch she was being forced back.

“Do it,” the Black Knight screamed. “Do it now.”

The hero’s sword struck the Prince from the back even as she finished the last word, Light roiling and letting out screams as the blade melted its way through layers of steel. Nim’s arms gave, the Scourge’s arms enveloping her almost intimately before the strength turned crushing. She screamed, ribs snapping like twigs, and spat out blood and phlegm as all four of her lungs were pressed on. But she’d live long enough, she thought even as the Prince tried to turn to shake off the hero and failed – the dark-skinned human turned with it. Enough that the Scourge would die, and then she could get herself healed.

If she still wore her helmet, she would not have seen it. She almost didn’t anyway because of the blood blinding on of her eyes, but as she gasped in pain the Black Knight saw the glint of the sun on metal. An arrow. Close, too close for her to avoid and- Commission.

Hanno could not save everyone.

He had known it from the start, thought he had made his peace with the inevitable. And still a shout ripped itself clear of his throat as the Hawk’s arrow took the Black Knight’s life. The shaft sunk halfway into the skull, an instant death. He was forced to cease pouring Light into the Prince of Bones’ armour as he had been doing, melting layer after layer, to rip out his sword and cut through the arrow that would have gone through the back of his neck. The towering Scourge backed away, swinging his blade more to force distance than strike, but Hanno would have none of it. The edge of his sword flaring with Light he carved through the steel, craning his neck to the side to avoid another killing arrow.

A dart forward had him closing the distance, the Prince of Bones tossing the broken sword in his face. He ducked low, dropping into a roll to avoid another arrow – the Hawk must be close – and slashing across the Scourge’s face. The pristine steel mask was scarred, metal melting down from the mark. A leg, Hanno decided. The Prince of Bones was heavy enough that without both legs there would be no escaping. Clouds roiled above his head, magic flaring, but Hanno pressed on. A half-step let the Prince’s fist slide past him and he slid under, hacking at the side of the Revenant’s leg even as lightning began pouring on them both from above. Hanno grit his teeth, throwing up a burst of Light that dispersed the sorcery over his head as he carved deep into the Prince’s leg.

Not deep enough, he thought as he rose behind the Scourge’s back. Another arrow swatted aside, but it had been a distraction: darkness fell over him. Hanno grit his teeth, flaring Light through his heated veins enough that the Mantle’s curse shattered. Just in time to see the Prince’s foot about to hit his stomach. He threw himself below it, a screaming curse shattering the stone he’d been standing on, and as he rose behind the Prince again he listened to the call of instinct and struck out with his hand – catching the Seelie’s knife as it was about to thrust through his throat. Letting out an irritated grunt, he bent the Scourge’s arm and rested the flat of his blade against he neck.

It was not a mercy: using it as lever, he pushed the Seelie’s head into the hole of molten metal he’d left in the Prince of Bones’ back.

An arrow hammered into his shoulder, going straight through the plate, and with a pained grunt Hanno let out a burst of Light through the wound to get it out. He’d still lost his opening for a killing blow on the Seelie, who had turned into a bed of dead flowers. Magic was rising again but Hanno had to step out of the way when the Prince snatched up a skeleton and swung it at him like a club, the arc of it covering the Mantle’s shivering curse until it was right on him – he desperately pivoted to the side, smashing the pommel of his sword into the Seelie’s half-melted face when she reappeared trying to drive her knife into his side. The curse shaved away at his pauldron, rusting the metal to powder, and the Seelie ducked the swing that would have hewn open her skull.

Then the storm hit, and it was all Hanno could do not to be blown right off the wall.

Soldiers behind him were not so lucky, and the dead were scattered by hurricane winds – turned into trebuchet stones as they hammered into Praesi ranks – but Hanno pushed forward, Light burning in his belly. He saw the Prince of Bones retreating, the silhouette fading out of sight, and with a scream of frustration he shaped a spear out of Light and tossed it at the Scourge’s back. It missed the mark by a foot, and even as he grit his teeth the Scourges disappeared into the inner city. A full retreat. The Black Knight was dead and he hadn’t even taken one of them for it. When the storm ended, leaving shocked Praesi as the victors of the battle for the gatehouse, Hanno trudged back to the ogre’s great corpse.

The arrow was still in her skull, the sight of it leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

“If I had struck from the front, I could have reached it with my arm,” Hanno murmured. “If I’d continued to listen to Save instead of buried myself in the use of the Light…”

Mistakes, though they had not seemed like it at the time. But then they never did, did they? That was why Hanno had one chosen to follow the Seraphim, heeded their answer to the Riddle of Fault. To be mortal was to fail, to make mistakes. The dark-skinned hero knelt by the Black Knight’s corpse, jaw clenched, and wondered how many more mistakes still lay ahead of him. Creation quickened around him, looking for resolve or its end, but Hanno did not embrace the bitterness. He had the strength to take the risk of doing the right thing, but that strength was not an absolute. He was but a mortal man, with all the limits that carried. He would not shy away from the truth of what he had chosen: he would fail. He had today, for all the other victories, and would again.

Hanno did not regret trying.

He ripped out the Hawk’s arrow, but after he did his hand lingered on the Black Knight’s bloodied face. His face fell into a pensive frown. Creation grew heavy. If it wasn’t about victory, if it was about doing all the good that you could, then could he really say he was finished? There was one more thing to attempt. Breathing out, the hero let the Light flow through him and into the villain’s corpse. He had seen Tariq Isbili used Forgive more than once, and there had been great priests could resurrect without the need of a Name or aspect. As his skin grew warm and he began to sweat, Hanno held a tight hand over the Light he was unleashing. It was about will, about intent – and if he slipped, he would burn the corpse instead of bringing it back to life.

Only, in a moment of clarity, Hanno realized that it was not truly resurrection he sought. It was something simpler, almost childish, but in a way perhaps less shallow. He had made a mistake. She had made a mistake. Perhaps all of Creation had made a mistake.

And Hanno of Award would Undo it.

He felt something infinitely larger than him brush against his soul, greater than even the Choir of Judgement, and the aspect lit up inside him. His hand against the Black Knight’s body serving as a conduit, he looked for ties to the soul so it might be called back and found… nothing? Light began guttering out even as Hanno heard footsteps behind him, a shadow being cast over his kneeling form. He turned, looking into an ogre’s rough face, and was about to speak when he suddenly closed his mouth. Through the fast-fading clarity the aspect had leant him, he saw in that body two souls.

“Black Knight,” Hanno evenly said.

“Lord Hanno,” she replied. “There will be no need for what I believe you are attempting. Though I will be weakened as I ride my soldier’s body, it will serve until my corpse can be made usable again.”

It was possession, he thought, but not in the way that he had seen it before. It was not a wraith stealing a body, this had been consented to. Explicitly or implicitly he could not tell, but the mark was there. This is not necromancy, not really. The principle behind it is different. Like a… chain of command, with replaceable faces. He suspected the Black Knight would not be able to ride a body that was not one of her soldiers. Inside Hanno’s belly the heat began to fade, Undo simmering down, and as it did he felt out the edge of the aspect’s limits. Once a day, a death or calamity could be undone. How the time was parsed he did yet know, but the limit of use was certain.

All that, he thought, and it had not been needed at all. Hand resting on his wearied brow, Hanno let out a snicker that turned into a quiet laugh.

“I was not needed, after all,” he mused.

And maybe that was the lesson he should have been learning all along, he thought. All this time, he had been trying to do it all himself. To keep the heroes one the right path, to keep Calernia from falling. Even before that, from the moment in Ashur where he had first become the White Knight. It had been him and the Seraphim who were to be concerned with the doling out of judgement, but no one else. Even with angels at his shoulder, he had walked alone. Only that wasn’t really true, was it? He’d been running around Keter trying to keep doom from claiming the day, trusting in his sword and the aspect he had come into, but that was not the whole of it – just the whole of him. They were all trying to hold up the sky today, and in the end all that Hanno of Arwad could claim to be was a pair of hands. Was it not the worst kind of arrogance, to think that it was on him for everyone to win or lose? Like a child he had decided that he would be strong enough to be able to do the right thing, as if his will was the only one in the world. He was not alone in this. He never had been.

Maybe it was time he acted like it.

“I agonized,” Hanno softly told the Black Knight, “over whether or not it was right for me to become the White Knight again. Whether it was going in circles, or nowhere at all.”

The ogre did not answer, her eyes wary and her silence thick.

“How very pointless that was,” Hanno mused, slowly rising to his feet.

There was no perfect Name that would save everyone, end all the ills of the world. He was just a man and Creation was larger than he would ever know. But he wasn’t alone. He didn’t have to do everything. He just needed to return the trust that had been placed in him. And while the Warden fought today to save the world, then Hanno could fight to save the people in it. To do as much good as he could, knowing that Catherine Foundling would be there to hold out a hand when he failed. Hanno looked around at the last of the dead on the rampart and the gatehouse that would let the Praesi into the inner city when it was opened.

The end was nigh.

“Let’s finish this,” the White Knight said. “The Dead King awaits.”

Akua Sahelian had been entrusted with the fate of Calernia and she had failed it.

Beyond all the excuses that were already springing up in the back of her mind, the justifications and the blame-shifting, that was the stark truth of it. She held in her hand the two pieces of the Crown of Autumn, the entrapping gift that had been meant to relieve the Dead King of his mastery over the dead and end the war in a single stroke. It was broken, irremediably cleaved in two. Only Masego’s cleverness in his surgery of the crown had prevented the cleaving from resulting in a wild release of power that would have torn a hole in the city and killed everyone involved in the crown’s failed defence.

But as Akua looked upon Hierophant’s work split asunder, a thought occurred. A mad thought, impossible, but in the face of extinction that was a meaningless word. And deep down, for all that it was laughable and ludicrous of her, she thought it could be done. That she could do it. So instead of falling to her knees, the golden-eyed sorceress turned to her friend. To achieve the impossible would have to be done like eating a whale: one bite at a time, until nothing was left.

“I need you to find me two needles in a haystack, Archer,” Akua said. “One that is currently on fire and full of undead.”

“My favourite kind,” Indrani agreeably replied. “What’s your poison, Saucy Siren?”

Beneath the flippancy she sounded relieved. For all that she had defiantly claimed not to regret the decision to save Akua’s life over going for the crown, the consequences of that choice loomed tall.

“First, find me a forge,” Akua said.

There were hundreds of these across the city, as though Keter’s great foundries were in the depths beneath the capital the equipment of the great army encamped within the walls must be seen to regularly lest it rust and break. Most were little more than glorified smithies, but it would be sufficient for her purposes.

“Gotcha,” Archer said. “And your other needle?”

“I will tell you after,” she replied. “Go.”

Indrani made a point of waddling slowly for the first few steps, but as soon as she turned the corner she disappeared in haste. The urgency was not lost on her. Akua, meanwhile, was left to handle another sort of trouble. The remains of the Vagrant Spear’s band were standing around the heroine, speaking with Ivah of the Losara.

“- been striking at bands, hit and run,” Sidonia told the drow. “Last I heard he got the Astrologer and clipped the Stained Sister.”

“It has not yet taken aim at Mighty,” the Lord of Silent Steps noted.

Only one name came to mind when the death of Named was so casually brought up: the Hawk. Akua stepped into the talks.

“That is because the Dead King believes he can brush aside the Night if he must,” she told them. “He used the Grey Legion to develop protective enchantments against it during the Hainaut offensive.”

“Mighty Sahelian,” Ivah politely greeted her, inkling its head.

No doubt Sargon would be highly insulted at the implication that Akua was considered the sigil-holder for her family should he ever be made aware of it, a twist of amusement that slightly brightened her mood. The reception from the other three was rather less warm. The Vagrant Spear offered a curt nod, the Red Knight a sneer and the Harrowed Witch looked like she was trying to figure out a way to excuse herself as soon as possible.

“Are any of you in need of healing?” she asked.

An empty question, when she saw that Sidonia was heavily wounded on the side for all that Light had half-cauterized the cuts. The Vagrant Spear eyed her consideringly.

“Can you leave the scars?”

Akua smiled and agreed that she would, laying a hand over the ruined flesh after the Vagrant Spear consented and whispering the incantation.

“Relying on another’s skill is weakness,” the Red Knight pointedly said.

“Fascinating,” Akua charmingly replied, all smiles. “You will have to tell me how you forged your sword, then. And whenever did you get the time to farm the wheat that went into every piece of bread you’ve eaten?”

The other woman’s mouth closed. The Vagrant Spear didn’t even bother to hide her grin, which meant it was time to spring her request.

“I will be in need of your help and that of your band, Lady Sidonia,” she said.

The heroine tensed, but she could not move away. Not when Akua had carefully ensured she was not done healing.

“What for?” she asked. “The artefact is broken. You must have heard the horns, too, Sahelian. We must gather for the muster in the inner city so we might join the assault on the Dead King.”

An artefact is broken,” Akua corrected. “Leaving behind shards and exceptional materials. I have sent Archer to find me a forge so that the defeat we were inflicted might be undone.”

“A worthy cause,” the Vagrant Spear reluctantly conceded. “Do you need Aspasie’s services, then? I could lend her.”

Aspasie looked like she would have whimpered if it did not risk drawing attention to her, but that was besides the point. Akua was passingly familiar with the Harrowed Witch’s skills, and the other mage’s talents were entirely unsuited to what she had in mind. Illusions, blood rituals and necromancy with a spiritual speciality were not what she needed, especially in the hands of a woman whose very Name came with a saboteur attached. Akua would need stability and control most of all. Precision would be everything.

“I need all of you to guard me as I work,” Akua replied, shaking her head. “Even the most minute interruption would ruin everything and the Dead King is sure to come for us the moment he grasps what we are attempting.”

Lady Sidonia was hesitating, both disinclined to do the Doom of Liesse any favours and hungry to be part of the glorious fight against the Dead King yet recognizing that what Akua was suggesting was of great import. So to tip the balance, the sorceress glanced at Ivah of the Losara. Its face betrayed the barest flicker of amusement before it was smoothed away.

“I will lend my spear to this labour,” the Lord of Silent Steps said. “And call for other Mighty to stand vigil.”

“We will as well,” the Vagrant Spear immediately replied, face hardening.

Pride was such a useful lever to move people with, Akua considered as she allowed the healing sorcery to ebb away. She smiled at Lady Sidonia.

“All finished,” she said.

Archer was back before long, having found a forge half a dozen blocks to the east. They all set out that way as Indrani paced around restlessly.

“Your second ask?” Archer pressed.

“I need a Named mage,” Akua said.

“You’ve got the Witch,” Indrani pointed out.

“She is unsuited to my needs,” she replied. “You must find me another. I can begin the work without them, but I will need them to finish it.”

A pause.

“Nahiza Serrif would serve as well, if you can find her,” Akua conceded.

Archer chewed the inside of her cheek thoughtfully.

“I’ll see who I can rustle up,” she promised, and heartbeats later she was gone.

Akua did not allow her thoughts to linger on it. Instead she hurried to the forge, finding the rundown stone house to be dirty and derelict but functional for her purposes. There was still charcoal for the forge in a bag that had been cut, spilling all over the floor, and she used it to light the hearth. A focused wind cantrip blew the dirt and ash off the anvil as she went looking through the tools, thankfully finding them to be steel. Even the hammer’s shaft, which made it a little heavy for her hand, but that could be seen to. She needed to enchant them to withstand greater heat anyway, she’d slip in a mild lightening enchantment for the hammer. It was quick and dirty work, burning the runes into the side, but she did not need the tools to last forever – or even to the day’s end.

By the time the fire was burning and the tools ready, the enemy had begun attacking.

Akua forced herself to ignore the sounds of fighting. It was not out there she would redeem her mistake but in here. Instead she placed the two prices of the Autumn Crown in the fire, using the bellow to stoke the flames even higher as she kept feeding it charcoal. Though she had once spent a month learning the essentials of smithing as part of being taught enchanting – enchanted swords made without understanding how simpler swords were forged had a tendency to shatter – she was not a trained smith, but then she did not need to be. Akua was not trying to make a functional object, not in the physical sense anyway.

She was changing the appearance of the crown to make it easier to affect its metaphysical nature, using the process of ‘being forged anew’ as channel to facilitate the work. Simply cutting away at the crown would do nothing. Not only did Akua understand the purpose of barely half of what Masego had done to the fae crown, even broken the artefact remained one of great power and weight. To try to change it without first unmaking it would be the difference between trying to shape stone and clay.

Thrust into the flames, the crown began to bend. The roots in copper and bronze began to twist, the sculpted leaves wilting as their edges thickened. Nothing was melting, not yet and perhaps ever, but it was softening. Hierophant had hammered dozens of iron nails into the crown, and reaching for the tongs Akua began to remove them. It was difficult work, even with the fire making them easier to rip out, and the heat in her face had her sweating as her muscles burned from the effort. She left only two nails in each half, her magic already feeling out the shards and finding the slumbering power inside was slowly waking up. Soon now.

The noise outside began to reach her ears again as she emerged from her trance, but there was a new note to it. It soon ended, another lull before the storm lapped at their gates again, and the door was thrown open when Archer strolled in. Behind her a young woman followed, dark-haired and tanned in padded battle robes. Of Ashuran make, these, but Akua would have recognized Sapan the Apprentice even without that. Her stomach dropped at the sight of the younger woman. Such a young practitioner with a transitional Name would not have the control she needed in her assistant.

“You getting there?” Archer asked. “It’s getting crazy out here. No Scourges yet, but he’s throwing Revenants at us by the baker’s dozen.”

Akua’s throat clenched as she wondered how she would have to tell Indrani that they had failed again, that the Apprentice would not be enough, when the young woman walked closer to the fire. Her eyes were curious and Akua stilled at the sight of her. There was something different about her. A certainty that had not been in the girl that trailed behind Hierophant in the hopes of peeking at his notes.

“You are no longer the Apprentice,” Akua said.

“I am,” Sapan thinly smiled, “the Mage.”

Only ‘Mage’, without anything preceding it. Oh my, Akua thought. Ashurans traditionally had three Names bound to spellcasting: Red Mage, Blue Mage and Silver Mage. The destroyer, the navigator and the healer. Only young Sapan was eschewing the label and the limits that would come with it. Simple as the Name sounded, it was a bold claim that would echo across all rungs of the Ashuran tier system. A year with Masego, the sorceress ruefully thought, was all it took to turn you into something that will rock the foundations of your home. Hierophant likely hadn’t even meant to do it. And the Mage would be a herald of great changes, Akua had no doubt about, because when the other woman had spoken her Name she’d heard smaller note to it.

It was still a transitional Name, a step on the way to a higher peak.

“Good,” Akua smiled, allowing a touch of savagery to show. “Come, Mage, for now the true work begins.”

Archer returned to the fighting outside, grounds she was more at home on, while the two of them took to the forge. Sapan’s control, Akua thought, was exquisite. The girl had once trained to be healer. The Soninke sorceress took out the first half from the flames with the tongs and laid it on the anvil, reaching for the hammer even as she instructed her helper.

“Keep it at this exact temperature,” Akua ordered. “It must be even throughout all the while.”

“To keep it at the point of transition,” Sapan thoughtfully murmured.

What a genuine terror that girl would become, in a decade or two. Akua was no proper smith, so her strikes were uneven as held down the half of the crown and hammered away at it. The shape would need to change, else the artefact could only ever be a broken shard of what Hierophant had made. Feeling out the enchantments, the lines drawn in the power slumbering within, Akua broke down the beautiful fae crown. Leaves turned into flat lumps, ornate roots into rough and uneven chords, even as she grasped at the edges of the enchantments. Much of what Masego had done, the beauty and elegance of his work, had to be discarded.

Akua went for simplicity instead, breaking down the parts that would have bound the concepts of ‘mastery’ and ‘death’ into mere ‘power’. A broad concept, which meant it would have shallow draw if left this way – the artefact would try to do too much at once when having finite strength, resulting in it doing a lot of very little. Which was why Akua, even as she turned the half-crown into a rough bracelet ring of copper and bronze, turned her attention to the two iron nails she had left. Before she hammered them into the ring, with shaky breath she branded them with the whole of her magic. This was High Arcana, not a simple exercise of power and knowledge. It must come from something deeper, something personal.

So Akua let herself remember the absolute nothingness of the void, the maddening nothing that had surrounded her as she half-slumbered a prisoner of the Mantle of Woe.

She bled it into the iron nails, pouring out all the terror and despair of it, and hammered them into the ring until there was no trace of the iron save for two faint circles on the side. The golden-eyed sorceress shuddered, feeling the concept that she had branded into the nails: chain. Exhaustion set her limbs to tremble, but Akua had no time for it. She quenched the bronze ring in water, letting it simmer there, and took the other half of the crown from the flames. Her magic was growing sluggish, but the Mage had learned from the first effort. She helped keep the enchantments in place as Akua wove them anew, hammering the other half of the crown into a matching ring. And again two nails of iron were hammered into circles, singing of ‘chain’ as the others had.

Into the water the second ring went, and once they were taken out to be laid on the anvil Akua Sahelian beheld her work.

Her metalwork had been without art to it, but even broken the Autumn Crown was one of the great mantles of the fae. Its nature asserted itself anew, what had been plain and bumpy bracelet rings turning into something altogether more beautiful. The roots and leaves she had hammered out had returned, engraving themselves so flawlessly that one might have thought the artefacts made of real ones. The bronze and copper had not melded, the copper instead turning into delicate filigree laying out the veins of leaves or the contour of branches and roots. And on the side of each bracelet ring, each large enough to be slipped around a wrist, two dots of iron remained. Only they had changed, melted by the head into the happenstance of two clasping hands.

A fitting emblem, Akua thought. For she had turned the Hierophant’s beautiful work into fetters, making of a gift that would grant immortality at the price of master over death something brutally simple. The rings bound the ‘power’ of any who bore one, chaining it to the other ring. No power could be used without the consent of whoever held the other end of the chain. It was not a leash, for no ring was master over the other, but instead something altogether uglier.

A prison, large enough for two.

“They are beautiful,” the Mage whispered. “Perhaps the greatest work of our age.”

“They are the ugliest thing I have ever made,” Akua Sahelian quietly replied, “or ever will.”

And still she took them in hand, feeling the lingering warmth of them against her skin. She left the smithy, the oppressing heat of it, and returned to the smoky skies of Keter. There Archer awaited, standing over a carpet of corpses dead twice over as Firstborn and Named held the streets.

“Finished?” Indrani asked.

“I am,” Akua said.

“Good,” Archer sharply nodded. “You’ll have to take it from here. I need to go.”

She was shifting her weight even as she spoke, Akua noticed, so restless she could not stop moving. How odd, the sorceress thought, and then breathed out in wonder. Ah, my heart, she fondly thought. Always a plan within the plan with you. Catherine had gone with the Ranger, the survivors of Refuge and the man Indrani loved. All essential elements for Indrani to transition out of her increasingly ill-fitting Name of Archer. In a single stroke you tell me that you are fighting and ensure reinforcements are on your way. The pull of fate on Indrani at the moment must be like getting dragged by the hair.

“Go,” Akua said.

Archer hesitated.

“You’re sure you’ll be fine on your own?”

“You chose my life over the crown, Indrani,” Akua Sahelian gently said. “I swear to any Gods listening that I will not make you regret that choice, so go.”

The other woman’s hazelnut eyes met her own, and after a moment whatever she was looking for she found. She sharply nodded, coat swirling behind her as she turned to leave without a goodbye. She watched Indrani vanish into the city to seek out her fate, leaving her to find her own.

Akua’s thumb stroke the side of the ring in her hand, wondering if she was holding a noose or a knot.

Interlude: Legends III

“Not two sentiments are more deeply intertwined than hope and fear: the deeper one, the starker the other.”

– Magister Haides the Elder of Stygia

First Princess Rozala Malanza sat her saddle, fingers clenched around the handle of her sword, and watched as her people died like flies.

Conscripts, fantassins and the remains of the armies of Procer stormed the last wall of Keter with ladders. Not for her soldiers, the siege towers and ballistae of the easterners: they made do with courage and catapults, the carpet of corpses beneath their fit so thick it was as if a snowstorm of cadaver had blown through. A ram was hammering at the gate below, enchanted by her finest mages, but it was like trying to smash a stone with an egg. However skilled her wizards, they were no match for the Hidden Horror’s arcane mastery.

Yesterday, in that world that was taken back, Rozala and her host had not made it this far. They might not have this time, either, had the Fox not shattered the encirclement they’d charged into and anchored her left flank as she pivoted her lines to the right to face the onslaught. It had been a hard fight but she had won it, driving back the dead and shattering the houses in their wake to make barricades just as the Dead King had done against them as they’d advanced. A third of the Grey Legion had retreated through the gates into the inner city, Rozala having to twice order Prince Otto back so he would not pursue.

The northerners had been pulled back, moved to the rearguard where healers were trying to keep as many of their wounded alive as possible. The First Princess knew the weight of the debt she owed: the Lycaonese had served as her vanguard all the way to the rampart, shattering themselves on every barricade and elite guard so that the rest of the army would arrive in good state. It had been a cold choice for her to make, but a necessary one. If her soldiers were to die by the score with every heartbeat as they tried the inner wall, she would rather send the conscript into that storm than the Lycaonese.

Procer still had plenty of men, for all its horrendous losses, but few of the calibre of the Lycaonese. They were a resource to he carefully spent, not carelessly thrown into the slaughterhouse.

However ugly the thought, it was the price of being in command to have to think it. Rozala’s role on this dark day was not to keep soldiers alive but to win, for defeat now would be the end of them all. And still the princess of Aequitan – and Salia, now that she sat the high throne – felt her gauntleted hand grind against the grip of her sword. Everywhere she looked, men died. They shouted and screamed and fought with desperate strength to take the wall, but the strength of the Enemy was not waning. She was forced to look away from the butchery when her personal guard parted to allow a mounted man through.

“Your Highness,” Prince Arsene greeted her, bowing as much as he could when armoured and ahorse.

“Your Grace,” Rozala simply replied.

She did not ask him why he had come, letting silence do the speaking for her.

“Captain-General Ferreiro has swept the wall,” the Prince of Bayeux informed her. “She has a foothold and requests reinforcements so that she might expand on it.”

The First Princess took a moment to recall where the fantassin captain was fighting – further east, close to Beatrice of Hainaut’s forces – before decisively nodding.

“Then we commit the reserves to her breach,” Rozala said. “The gatehouse still holds strong, we may not have another opportunity.”  

“My thoughts exactly,” Prince Arsene smiled.

Even odds whether or not he was lying. The Prince of Bayeux had spent most of the war trying to keep his soldiers out of the fighting as much as possible, but he was not unskilled in military matters. For all that he was averse to risk in battle, he might well realize that Rozala meant every word when she said that this might be the only opportunity for a breakthrough they would get today. Desperation on your part did not mean weakness on the enemy’s, the First Princess knew. She had learned that lesson during the Great War, long before she sat a throne.

“Pass on my compliments to Captain-General Ferreiro,” Rozala added. “I believe the Ligera Bandera might well be the first to take the wall today. A boast worth adding to the histories of their company.”

Should they all survive, she did not add. It was the dark cloud that haunted every sentence spoken these days, like some pettily malevolent ghost. Prince Arsene bowed again, offering three flowery compliments about her beauty before taking his leave. Alamans, she thought, turning her head so that no one would see her roll her eyes. Most of Rozala’s captains were out there, leading the Aequitan troops in assault their section of the wall, but she had kept a few with her under the salamander banner of the Malanzas to serve as councillors and command her retinue.

Captain Salvador had served her house for half a century, first her mother and then her. He’d once saved her life at the Sack of Lullefeuille. So when the hatched-faced man with the great mustache came to her with a grim look, Rozala straightened. Salvador was past sixty now, but there were few men she trusted more.

“There is trouble,” he quietly told her. “Our path back to camp is being cut off.”

Rozala’s stomach clenched.

“The dead are moving in behind us?” she asked.

“Princess Beatrice sends words that her outriders caught companies of Bones circling around her position instead of hitting her flank,” Captain Salvador said.

“Then they’re moving to hit us from the back,” Rozala grimaced.

Which was a potential disaster. When launching her assaults on the walls, she had been forced to cycle her wounded to the back of her formation so that fresh troops could lead the storm. There were fresh Orense men there also, of course, she was not the kind of fool to leave her back unguarded. But it was the most fragile part of her army and the Dead King’s general seemed to have sniffed out the weakness.

“What can we spare?” she asked.

“Not much, unless the reserve is recalled from the storm,” the older man told her.

Which she could not. Not only had she just sent them out, if they were pulled away then the Ligera Bandera’s foothold would be lost and their assault might entirely fail. But if the rear of the army collapsed, then… Fear is what the Enemy wants, the First Princess reminded herself. It is what he seeks with this manoeuvre. Rozala found her calm, laying a hand on the curved breastplate her late pregnancy was forcing her to wear. She knew what must be done.

“Scrape together everything you can,” Rozala ordered. “And raise the banner.”

“Your Highness?” Captain Salvador asked.

“We fight, sir,” the First Princess of Procer said. “I will lead the defence myself.”

Yara of Nowhere did not exist, then she did.

She was the edge of a roof, a handful of Revenants moving below her. There was a loose tile under her foot. She had never been able to feel Neshamah’s little puppets as well as true Named, but the echoes of their authorities gave her just a bit of a hook. It didn’t amount to much, since he could take control of them whenever he wished, but sometimes all you needed was a pebble to start the avalanche. Yara hummed, fingers tapping against the side of her leg, and waited for the right time. It was easy enough to know it even with her sight ripped out, for to Narrate a story was to know how to incite incident. Like, say, by nudging a loose tile forward. It dropped, shattering in the street, and the noise drew the attention of the last of the moving puppets.

The Revenant turned and saw in the distance the glint of the sun on steel.

“That’ll do it,” Yara mused, reaching for her flask.

Sahelian was hard to read, close to Named but not, and that made it difficult to follow her story past a certain point. For this much, though, what Yara could see would be enough. That pretty little trick the Hierophant had cooked up with the Crown of Autumn was not to stay in the game. It was a defeat Nessie might be willing to suffer, being shackled with that, and there would be none of that. The Grand Alliance was going to fight a cornered rat with nothing to lose, not a becalmed King of Death thinking there was still a way out of this. He was losing the Serenity, his great defensive ritual was being cracked open but the dwarves and now armies were about to hit the last of his walls.

“Didn’t I tell you, Neshamah?” Yara said, raising her flak in a toast. “Eat the fucking baby.”

Akua first knew it was going wrong when she saw the corpses.

Two of them, laying abandoned on the ground. The Grizzled Fantassin had been stabbed in the throat repeatedly until there was nothing left there but red meat, and she would not have recognized the Hunted Magician if not for his rich enchanted robes. The Proceran mage’s corpses was shrivelled beyond recognition, a dried-out husk.

“Shit,” Archer whispered. “There go our reinforcements.”

“Only two dead out of the band,” Akua said.

“Sidonia led them,” Indrani said, her tone too casual. “She’s not the kind of woman that’d leave the dead bodies of her people behind if she’s in any state to take them.”

The Vagrant Spear had spent some time under Archer when she led a band of her own, the sorceress recalled. There might have been genuine fondness there, though this was not the time for comfort and Indrani hardly cared to receive that sort of thing anyway. Not from her, at least. Only Catherine and Masego had managed to wedge themselves between the porcupine’s thorns so they would not prick their hand when extending it. Akua instead threw up shields without voicing an incantation even as her Archer nocked an arrow, only then approaching the bodies. There was no telling whether it was a Revenant, a Scourge or even simple dead that’d done this.

The Hunted Magician had been killed by a curse but those were not unique to the Mantle, and there seemed to be nothing magical about the Grizzled Fantassin’s ruined throat.

“So?” Archer asked.

“No telling whose work it was,” Akua admitted. “But I still believe we should change our path.”

“To where?” Indrani replied. “We can’t go east to the Proceran push, the whole point of riding in the shadow of Hakram’s assault was making sure our eggs weren’t all in one basket. We could try to go north to see of the Praesi are getting through, but there’s nothing certain about it.”

“I do not believe Bones did this,” the golden-eyed mage said, pointing at the bodies. “Which means it is also a certainty we will face Revenants, if we continue our path to the inner wall.”

“We can handle Revenants,” Archer dismissed, but Akua’s eyes narrowed.

Ah, she thought. Indrani was hoping to destroy whatever undead had assaulted the Vagrant Spear’s band in order to avenge a woman she’d been fond of.

“Whether or not we can beat them is irrelevant,” Akua replied. “Revenants are not like other dead, a part of Trismegistus’ attention rides with them always. The moment we fight even one, he will know where we are.”

Indrani’s face tightened with displeasure. Akua began to muster her arguments – using Catherine tended to be useful but only in small doses, since Archer would rebel at the thought of being ‘tame’ – when the other woman suddenly sighed and spat to the side.

“You’re right, Former Phantom,” Indrani conceded. “We need to make it quietly to the wall. Past Hakram’s lines and north to the Praesi, then?”

“It seems our best bet,” Akua agreed. “We-”

Sudden warmth against her skin as one of the enchanted rubies beneath her armour suddenly heated told her an enchantment was being directed at her, which saved her life. By reflex, she detonated her shields and the burst of it kicked up ash, coating the invisible Seelie’s side with it even as an illusion pretended to stab Akua in the throat. Archer kicked the Scourge in the side, getting a grunt out of her, and Akua hissed out an incantation. She threw a fireball at the Revenant’s head which the illusionist contemptuously cut through only to trigger the second part of the formula, a vicious burst of frost that shattered the blade.

The redheaded Scourged in her vulgar gown snarled, her passably attractive face turning monstrous and sinister, and barked out a word in something that sounded like Chantant.

“Time to run,” Archer grunted, idly putting an arrow in the eye of what turned out to be an illusion.

The Seelie was gone again, no doubt looking for an opening.

“Agreed,” Akua fervently said. “It’s only a matter of time until-”

A wave of pressure pushed at her magic as a ward came down. Containment, the sorceress idly assessed. We are being kept inside a circle.

“That,” she finished with a sigh.

“Cage?” Indrani asked, nocking an arrow as she spoke.

Akua nodded, beginning a trailing cant – the shared beginning of several spells of very different effects, which would let her adapt to the situation as it unfolded instead of being forced to start anew if taken by surprise.

“Bummer,” Archer drily said.

As if summoned by the word, silhouettes crested at the edge of rooftops and walked out into the streets surrounding them. Not a horde this, only a dozen individuals or so, but that was not a good sign. A horde of skeletons, Akua could have scattered easily.

The dozen Revenants converging on them would be harder to deal with.

The Dead King was not holding back, Rozala thought.

The Enemy had assembled a force meant to break her army’s rearguard with poisonous haste since the defeat inflicted on its attempted encirclement. The fangs were first bared before the First Princess arrived with her reinforcements, an attack in two strokes. First a stream of pale slug-like creatures made of corpse fat had swarmed all over the broken gate of Keter, devouring the soldiers there and then allowing themselves to be lit aflame by some undead mage. They burned merrily, cutting off Rozala’s army from the camp and filling the air with poisonous clouds that the wind was blowing her way. The second stroke came when ghouls began pouring out of what she was assured had been an empty house, overrunning three positions before a shield wall could be assembled.

“We faced the same trap yesterday,” the First Princess told the still-befuddled Orense general. “Deep basements were dug under some of the houses and kept sealed after being filled to the brim with undead. The enemy were there all along, waiting for the Dead King’s order.”

At least it wasn’t a maze of tunnels under the city they were dealing with, only sporadic hidden basements – though Rozala suspected that had more to do with a strong mage being able to collapse tunnels than lack of interest on the Dead King’s part. He’d always liked his underground tricks, the old monster. There was a reason Rozala still had to sleep with an ear to the ground no matter how many wards she intellectually knew were keeping the dead from digging underneath the camp.

“I am shamed to have been caught by it,” the dark-haired general replied. “We will earn back our honour with blood, Your Highness. Our shield wall will hold.”

No it won’t, Rozala thought, looking at the clash. Not only was Keter flooding their backlines with every spare undead they had to throw at it but a force had also clearly been assembled to crack their shield wall. It was the only reason the First Princess could think of there being so many ‘mantises’ here. Unlike beorns and tusks, who were meant to shatter shield walls with sheer power, that particular breed of monsters worked in precision. At first look they could pass for strange, carapaced horses but once they closed distance the mantises revealed the reason for their name: long, segmented legs ending in hooked bones blades unfolded.

They went over the shields of shield walls, tearing through soldiers from the back to shred them in moments.

She could see at least four dozen of those mixed in the horde the Orense soldiery was holding back as her retinue came to prop the up, though they had not yet struck. The moment they did, the entire shield wall would collapse in a matter of moments. Rozala’s mind spun, looking for a way through. What mages she had were already busy keeping vultures away, lest the flying pests begin going for the wounded and attack the healers, and though she’d been able to pull away a few priests it would not be enough to hold back the enemy when they pushed. Their defence would not hold, she realized as she went through every trick and tactic she’d learned since she had first taken up command.

There was nothing she knew that would keep the dead from tearing past them and overrunning the infirmaries, sweeping over priests and wounded before consuming the entire Proceran army from the inside.

Then the banner caught her eye. The scarlet salamander on flaxen bed with the Malanza words beneath: Through Peril, Rise. Yes, Rozala thought, laying a hand over the armour beneath which her daughter yet to be born slumbered. I should not have forgot. She could not hold the defences of the rearguard, not with the forces at hand, so she ought not to defend at all. She gave her instructions, sent for the priests and the horsemen, and then reached for her banner to take it up. Rozala spurred her horse forward, heading for the shield wall, and once there shouted the order.

“STRIKE,” the First Princess of Procer screamed. “We were the first wall of Calernia and we will not fail it today, so STRIKE!”

There were not enough priests to make a great wall of yellow Light, the kind that had been first used at the Battle of Camps and one many fighting says since, but that wasn’t what Rozala had been after. Instead she had told them to create oblique lines through the enemy ranks, crackling Light burning the dead whenever they touched it. Their formation suddenly crisscrossed by lines of Light, the undead fell into disarray even as the Proceran foot surged forward. Rozala surged with them, a ring of guards around her as to the sides the last of her cavalry poured into the breach. It was working, the First Princess realized with numb relief. The mantises had come out but they were a precision tool, not much better than any other construct in a wild melee, and as the dead were driven back the priests ended their lines of Light to create fresh ones deeper in.

But the attack was slowing down, ground to a half by the sheer thickness of the ranks of the dead, and Rozala knew her duty.

She went into the press of it, sword in hand and banner in the other. It was a wild thing, the melee, and though she swung through skulls and shattered shields a ghoul slipped past her guards and under her horse, eviscerating her. The undead was pinned by a spear a moment later but Rozala fell off, desperately leaning on the banner so she wouldn’t land on her belly. It was in an awkward crouch she landed, both hands on the banner’s shaft as she had dropped her sword. She groped for it and heard roars around her as she rose, the soldiers burning at the sight of the First Princess fighting in the ranks. Malanza swords all around her, Rozala raised her banner.

“Procer,” she shouted. “For Procer, and every land we lost!”

They charged, Light and sorcery crackling on all sides as steel clashed with steel. The dead were breaking, Rozala could feel it. And soon there would be reinforcements – the Fox was sure to see that there was heavy fighting at the rearguard and move to support them. The enemy lines gave, like gasping lips, but even as triumph swelled in her heart Rozala Malanza saw the Revenant. A tall and armoured form, its rusted plate weeping red as it strode forward and calmly cut through men. Its great two-handed broadsword shattered shields and smashed helms, unerringly cutting down anyone who approached. And the Revenant was coming, inexorably, for her.

“Priests,” Rozala shouted, but none answered.

It would be steel, then. She surged forward with her retinue, unwilling to give the enemy the choice of how to engage. They would flood it with numbers. Only the Revenant kept advancing, cutting through one soldier after another and ignoring the blows that ripped at its rusted plate only to reveal only weeping redness beneath it. Rozala screamed as Captain Salvador’s head went flying past her, thrusting her blade into the Revenant’s visor, but she felt no flesh beneath the steel. Only bones and wetness. The Revenant cut at her, sending her flying back as her pauldron came off from the strength of the blow and her bones creaked.

Leaning on the banner she got back to her feet as the Revenant kept calmly advancing. All around her the charge was faltering, fear spreading through her soldiers, and Rozala Malanza breathed out. It was clear, in her mind’s eye, what must be done. One last death to stiffen their spine and save the army from collapse. I’m sorry, Louis, she thought. We’ll both wait for you halfway there, that we might meet the Gods Above together. The First Princess of Procer lowered her banner like a spear, pointing at the Revenant, and shook her hair free of her helm. She took a step forward, seeing the rising arc of the enemy’s blade and her death waiting within in.

“Forward,” Rozala Malanza shouted, charging forward. “And fear not-”

Before the banner could spear the Revenant’s throat, before its blade could take her head, a star fell. Or so it felt like, for the blinding Light seared her eyes as she glimpsed a man rip out the dead Name’s sword arm and wetness gush out. Rozala stepped back, shading her eyes, and when the brightness faded she saw Hanno of Arwad drive his sword deep in the Revenant’s guts. Light boiled, roiled, and red vapour wafted upwards as the creature let out a silent scream. The hero turned to her, face calm as glimmers of Light turned his eyes gold in the shade of the falling ash, and smiled.

“And fear not death,” Hanno of Arwad smiled. “Not while I am here.”

The hero cocked his head to the side, as if listening to a voice only he could heard, and then he was gone in a burst of movement. Leaving the First Princess of Procer to look forward at the collapsing ranks of the dead before her, and the victory she had somehow not needed to die to achieve.

The Mirror Knight took the blow on his shield, the beorn driving him three step backs into a swarm of skeletons that hit away at his armour fruitlessly. Even when they found his skin, their blades bounced off. Gritting his teeth, Christophe de Pavanie pulled at the power within himself. Reflect. The beorn’s belly was ripped open as the strength it had struck with was thrown back at it, the hero taking a measured step forward to cut all the way through the side with his blade to make sure it wouldn’t be getting up. He shook off the skeletons, smashing them every which way, and checked that the Severance was still safely loosened to his back. It was.

A Bind had tried to take it earlier only to be cut all the way through without Christophe lifting a finger to achieve this, but this would not be the Dead King’s last attempt. He was out in the open now, it was only a matter of time until harder foes than skeletons and beorns came forward. Absent-mindedly sweeping through a company of skeletons to make it back to the Ligera’s position, the Mirror Knight found most the others had gone further down the rampart to help the fantassins in their bid to reach the gatehouse and wrest open the doors. Attempting to go down into the inner city through the stairs had only served to revealed that the ‘entropy fields’ were already awake.

Only the Knight Errant remained at the foothold, the boy in fair armour wielding a sword that looked like smoke turned into a blade.

“Sir Mirror,” Arthur Foundling called out. “You’ve returned. The beorn?”

“Done,” Christophe said. “There were also a pair of tusks so I cleaned them up while I was there.”

They might have been difficult for the fantassins to deal with, if he’d not been there to take the charge on their behalf.

“You just-” the boy began, then shook his head. “Never mind, I should have expected no less.”

Was the Knight Errant doubting his word? It was an insult, but Christophe supposed he’d been the only one to see the tusks. He would not take it personally. Callowans were not well inclined to him as a rule.

“Have you spoken with Captain-General Ferreiro?” he asked.

“No,” Arthur Foundling said, “but she sent an officer. She’s focusing on the push towards the gatehouse to try to let in the rest of the army, but she’s warned us that-”

A shadow was cast over the two of them and the soldiers all around, for a tall shape had come to stand between them and the sun. The Titan Kreios strode over houses carefully, taking pains to avoid stepping on Proceran soldiers, but he was tall enough even a careful stride was like the wind. Christophe had never quite realized how tall the Riddle-Maker was, taller even than the towering Gigantes. The ancient mage used no ladder to climb the rampart, climbing it as one would a garden fence. He crushed a few hundred dead rising to his feet, standing taller now than all of Keter save for the tower deep at the heart of the Crown of the Dead.

“That the Titan is headed our way,” the Knight Errant faintly said.

“Thank you for the warning,” Christophe politely said.

Which had the boy glaring at him for some reason. Callowans, he ruefully thought. So prickly. The eyes of the Titan found them both, sliding over to the Severance and lingering there for a moment.

“Children,” Kreios Riddle-Maker said. “Prepare yourselves. I will now silence the enemy’s trick.”

The Knight Errant saluted with his sword, but Christophe simply nodded. Satisfied of the acknowledgements, the Titan stepped down into the fields of time that should have wasted him away like a man sliding into a pond. The old god only laughed at the magic lapped at his body.

“A hundred million droplets can be an ocean, Young King, but they can also be nothing more than rain. Your learning is yet shallow.”

The Titan raised his hands, and magic began to pour out of the ground like tendrils.

“Kronia will forgive me, this once, for borrowing her sickle.”

The Mirror Knight watched silent as magic burned, igniting the air, and stone began to turn to dust.

Akua flicked her wrist, a burst of nail-shaped curses flying out and hitting the Revenant’s face.

They punched through the skin and he began to scream as his senses melted, the sorceress hastily backing away as a burst of flame exploded where she had stood a heartbeat before. Tracing a rune in the air, she smothered the smoldering sparks before they could turn into an animated shape again and broke into a run before the javelins began to fall. She turned a corner even as the sound of them crashing through stone tiles sounded behind her, murmuring a curse of thinning as she trailed a finger across the wall she was passing by. A heartbeat later a long-haired winged Revenant in armour dropped behind Akua, her iron spear already halfway into a strike.

Just in time for the wall to collapse on top of her armoured form.

Akua tossed back a minor jinx of slipperiness on the pile of stones to slow her down, knowing that the formula was highly responsive to separate surfaces, and lengthened the strides of her run. Archer was meant to be covering her, but… The thought was interrupted by a familiar silhouetted being thrown through a bronze grid a mere ten paces before her, Indrani let out a curse as she tumbled into old dust and landed in a sprawl. The golden-eyed Soninke dipped into her magic again, crafting a quick and loose illusion of the two of them running away as she ducked into the house and dragged Archer out of sight.

“Hey, Akua,” Indrani groaned. “You found that ward anchor yet?”

Until it was destroyed, neither of them was getting out of the glowing circle in which they were being forced to fight. They’d tried, and while people and objects seemed able to come in nothing seemed able to come out – not even dust, which was coating the side of an invisible half-sphere instead.

“I believe I have,” she replied, “but you won’t like it.”

“It’s under that fucker in the golden armour, isn’t it?” Archer sighed.

“I narrowed it down to a city block and within it there is a house whose entrances were all sealed by magic,” Akua said.

“The one with the golden fucker on it,” Indrani pressed.

She nodded in agreement, offering a sympathetic grimace.

“At least it’s not a second Scourge,” Archer said. “That’d be a little much even for me.”

Which was, naturally, when lightning struck the roof above them and the Tumult made his entrance into the battle. Akua cursed, throwing up a shield as the two of them made for the door under collapsing stone, only to find two Revenants bearing swords and shields already there. The Twins, Akua had taken to calling them in her mind. Neither of them were all that difficult to deal with, but so long as one stood the other would keep repairing itself. They were not a great concern, but if they were here… Archer grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, throwing the both of them to the side as javelins began to fall like rain. They were simple bronze rods, but each hit with the strength of a ballista’s bolt.

That Revenant only had one trick, but it was a decent one.

Akua landed on her back, Indrani’s elbow digging into her face, and as the other woman got up longknives in hand she idly bespelled a cloud of smoke to blow into the face of the Twins. Knees aching, she began to rise. If she lingered, javelins would follow.

“I’ll take Ugly and Ugles,” Archer said. “Can you blow open that closed house?”

“I can,” Akua agreed, but her eyes strayed above.

Storm clouds were gathering above their head. The Tumult had learned better than to fight her face to face, but its ability to so easily serve as magical artillery remained a thorn in Akua’s side. If she’d not been looking that way already, the sorceress would never have seen the roof tile bend. As if there had been weight on it. She began to trace a shield, but even as Indrani turned at her alarmed shout and the Seelie flooded both their sights with illusions, Akua knew the Scourge’s knife would strike true. The timing had been too good.

Or so she believed, until the Seelie came back into sight as her knife-wielding arm was snatched out of the air and she was smashed into the ground.

“You move loudly,” the Lord of Silent Steps chided the undead.

Akua’s heart soared at the sight. Ivah of the Losara was a powerful ally, for all that it usually disdained head-on fights.

“Ivah,” Archer grinned. “You took your time.”

“Apologies, Mighty Archer,” Ivah idly replied. “I had to shepherd children.”

“HONOUR TO THE BLOOD!”

Akua blinked away the burn of the Light as the Vagrant Spear tore into the side of one of the Twins, deftly kicking the other in the face as she pierced through the other’s stomach. Akua flicked a spell of binding at the feet of the one getting kicked, ensuring he fell, and Indrani shoved a knife through the throat of what should have been the Seelie but was instead a bed of wilted flower petals. Twice now the Scourge had pulled that trick and it wasn’t getting any less annoying. The sorceress smoothly transitioned into the incantation for a triple-layered shield that would be able to withstand the javelins soon to follow, but it ended up unnecessary.

A spectre leapt out to devour them as they howled through the air, the Harrowed Witch recalling her brother’s bound shade to her side afterwards.

“The third?” Akua asked the Lord of Silent Steps.

“Listen for the shouting,” the Firstborn drily replied.

There was a blind scream of rage somewhere ahead, followed by a house collapsing and the storm clouds above their heads calling down lightning there instead. One the torrent of lethal magic had passed and smoke began to rise, mocking laughter came from that direction.

“Should have put your back into it, Tumult,” the Red Knight taunted. “I’ve had worse from Cleven weather.”

Well, Akua thought as she rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck – a terribly uncouth habit, but exactly as satisfying as she’d thought it would feel when she had first seen Catherine indulge – now this ought to be a rather more even fight. She adjusted the box holding the Crown of Autumn on her back and reached for her magic.

“Let’s begin this properly, then,” the Doom of Liesse said, her smiled showing all too many teeth.

Cordelia had always hated battles.

An ironic thing, considering that for all her politicking it was victorious battles that had enthroned her as First Prince of Procer, but no less true for it. One of her predecessors, First Princess Eugénie of Lange, had once called diplomacy ‘war without all the clumsiness’. For all that Cordelia was inclined to think well of the woman’s record otherwise – most of her reign had been spent repairing Procer after the wounds inflicted by the Dominion throwing out its occupiers – in that particular matter she disagreed. Diplomacy was simply not as arbitrary as war, where an empire could be doomed because it had been a misty morning or the wind was blowing the wrong way.

Under the intellectual disliked, though, the fair-haired princess knew that her hatred came from the source of helplessness. All her life she had sent other people to make war on her behalf, sitting miles away behind tall walls and fighting the urge to bite at her fingernails until she could knew whether the day’s horror was to be the mother of victory or defeat. She was hardly the only royal, even among Lycaonese, who did not take to the field themselves. Yet she had always felt it as a manner of failure on her part. Her mother had fought in the ranks, sword in hand. She’d died there too, though, leaving Cordelia to rule Rhenia alone all too soon. It still reeked of sending people to die in her name, a feeling she guiltily despised all the more for the way it held a grain of truth.

And now here, at the edge of the world, she still sat behind wards and walls as she waited for news of the battle unfolding inside the Crown of the Dead.

She had done her best to ensure that she could get swift word. At each gatehouse she had a group of messengers and a loose net of them through the entire ring camp that would serve as a relay to get developments to her quickly. It was how she’d learned that the League’s offensive had stalled, only for Basilia to break the stalemate after heavy losses for the Bellerophans. She had learned of it too late for her tastes, though, and the further the armies got into the city the less she heard. Marshal Juniper had allowed an observer in her command tent as what Cordelia would like to take as a gesture of goodwill but was most likely Catherine’s order, which helped, but only so much.

Messengers now had to venture into Keter, following the armies through besieged lines and dangers. Half of them never returned and those that came back did not always have much more information to share than what their eyes could gather: officers on the ground had more important duties to handle than speaking to her messengers and Cordelia was no longer First Prince. She could be ignored, now, dismissed. Her displeasure no longer had the old sting to it.

What she did learn came in waves. There had been an attempt to encircle and destroy Principate forces that’d been beaten back with General Abigail’s timely help. The Clans had broken through all opposition coming in from the west and reached the walls. The Dominion, serving as the Black Knight’s rear guard, had seen some heavy fighting. The last word she’d gotten was that the Titan had reached the walls, though she had no real notion of whether or not the ancient mage had silence the Dead King’s magical defences as he had promised to. Still, in at least one regard Cordelia had learned in advance of generals and officers instead of the other way around.

Out in the Ossuary the dwarves had sent up the first of two agreed-upon signals: the Herald of the Deeps had reached the ritual site below the city. The second signal, which would signify the site had been destroyed, had yet to follow. No doubt the Enemy had fortified the position thoroughly, so it could be some time yet before it fell – the very reason Kreios’ presence was necessary, since the ‘entropy fields’ were certain to activate before then.

Cordelia could only imagine, the very reason she was sitting at the table with sheaths of papers before her and trying very hard to think of anything except the possibility that the Grand Alliance would lose. Armies had made it to the inner wall, she knew, and even broken through. But the fighting would only get harder from there, with little room for retreat as the dead still in the outer city tore through the rearguards. Yet she had not wanted to spend the entire battle reminding herself she had been better raised than to bite her nails, which was why she’d brought out a quill and inkwell so she might lay out proposals for the tax system of Cardinal one it was built.

The attendant territory of the city, after all, would be much too small to sustain it should the seat of the Accords grow to the expected size. The princess had been considering the respective merits of tariffs and whether quarries might be a possible source of revenue for some time, but even as she tried to make herself look at the papers she found her attention straying. In the margin of a section on the dangers of imposing punitive tariffs when a trace crossroads was just beginning, she’d found that her hand was tallying losses. How many soldiers dead, how bad were the odds getting? Cordelia’s attention was failing, the only saving grace being that Brother Simon had been too polite to comment on it.

She sighed, giving it up for a lost cause, and set down the quill.

“The waiting is always the worst part,” Simon de Gorgeault quietly said.

“I sometimes feel I have done nothing else all my life,” Cordelia tiredly admitted. “Just years and years of waiting in between a few days of haste.”

The once-spymaster sympathetically nodded.

“I have found prayer a comfort in moments like these,” Simon said, “but I suspect you’d not share the inclination.”

“I like the Gods to stay in their Heavens,” Cordelia smiled. “The Highest Assembly’s floor is crowded enough without them taking up seats.”

“Blasphemy,” the lay brother said, though his tone was amused.

It was not that the princess did not believe in the virtue of the Gods Above and the worth of their teachings, but rather that she’d never thought of miracles as a solution. Miracles were passing things, beautiful but ephemeral, and you could not build on such a foundation. Prayer was good and worthy thing, but Lycaonese knew better than to rely on it when spring arrived and the Chain of Hunger came calling. Or perhaps that was only a conceit, Cordelia Hasenbach thought as she touched the bracelet of ratling teeth digging into her wrist under her sleeve, as she felt a folded parchment burning against the warmth of her breast.

Perhaps it was just a different kind of prayer, to wear the last gifts of those she had loved and hope they would see her through the storm. Friedrich Papenheim’s small act of kindness had stayed with her since she was fourteen, and now Agnes Hasenbach’s last words were to remain against her skin until she knew it was time to read them. One last augury from another cousin she had loved, another kin devoured by this black war. Deep down, Cordelia was relieved she would be abdicating Rhenia and Hannoven to Otto Reitzenberg. She feared returning north and seeing only a land of empty seats and silences, the expression of everything and everyone she had lost.

“They will breach the inner city soon, if they have not already,” Brother Simon told her, looking past the entrance of the tent and into the emptied camp around them. “The first inklings of victory will soon arrive.”

Or defeat, she thought, but the former spy was a hopeful man at heart. Cordelia rose to her feet, moving towards the carafe of water at the other end of the table, and cocked a questioning eyebrow at her companion. He shook his head so she poured a cup only for herself, debating whether or not she should force herself to attempt working again, when the sound began. It was a small thing, at first, like a faint chirp. Only it swelled and grew, turning from whisper to word to scream, and the princess abandoned a half-empty cup to walk out of the tent. In the distance, past the edge of the camp, she saw only the heavy smoke rising from the chasm.

It had been this way for hours, the magics of the dwarves lighting up the foul emanations as if an entire Hell had been unleashed far below. Yet Cordelia’s cool blue eyes narrowed as she realized that it was not only smoke she was looking at now. There was movement there, half-hidden by the obscuring curtains.

The first to come out was a bird, a simple sparrow that flew out of the smoke, but the sight of it had dread pooling in her stomach.

A wave followed, dead birds and insects pouring out of the depths of the chasm like a tidal wave that swept over the camp. It was so thick it cast a shadow, hiding away the sun, and hulking shapes began to swim in the sea of death like great whales. Winged wyrms and flocks of vultures, but also creatures shaped like boxes of bone kept aflight by balloon-like breathing lungs. And not so much as a single fly moved towards Keter, towards the fighting in the city and the armies coming for the Dead King’s head. They all converged in one direction. Cordelia Hasenbach breathed out as the Enemy’s hordes came for the weapon she had kept as a knife to his throat.

“Bring up the battle wards,” the princess ordered, voice eerily calm. “And get into position.”

Fear had frozen her soldiers at the sight of what was headed for them, despair at numbers they knew they could not beat, but her voice woke them. There were salutes and captains began to shout orders, sorcery flaring as mages put up every layer of defence they still could. The Hidden Horror feared the ealamal, Cordelia thought. He was coming to destroy it. Even if her life had not been in the balance, it would have been as fine a reason as any to fight to the last defending it. Her fingers reached for her heart and the parchment folded against it, but the fair-haired Lycaonese forced herself to pull away. It was not yet time. She tore her eyes away from the swarm, turning to Brother Simon.

A brave man, the spy, who was looking at the tide of death much as one might look at inclement weather.

“I will have to trouble you, Simon,” she said.

“What for, my lady?” he asked, sounding surprised.

“A sword,” Cordelia Hasenbach grimly said.

If the ealamal was overrun and the battle about to be lost, she may well have no choice but to pull the trigger. But she would not let fear own her, not when she bore on her the last wills of her cousins. She was, for all her years in the south, still Lycaonese.

She’d fight until the end of the world.

Interlude: Legends II

“The army of Tenerife encamped by the banks of the Blue Ribbon, making fires, and the sight of their multitude troubled Theodosius’ captains. Daphne of Penthes, most respected among them, argued that they should seek aid from Nicae rather than give battle. ‘They are as many Procerans as there are grains of sand,’ she said. Theodosius refused. ‘Then like so much sand we will scatter them before us,’ he replied.”

– Extract from ‘The Banquet of Follies, or, A Comprehensive History of the First League War’ by Prince Alexandre of Lyonis

The Warlord charged, and all that stood before him shattered.

His shoulder hit a shield wall bristling with pikes and blades and he broke straight through, a tide of warriors pouring in behind him as the dead were swept away by the wrath of the Clans. He did not slow. Ghouls burst out of the ground, buried under the rock, but his footing was sure and they were all frail. His axe swung and flesh gave, blood spurted, screams filled the air. Hakram felt his blood thundering in his ears like the beat of a drum. Felt the rhythm echo in the fifty thousand souls trailing in his wake as he roared, leaping up to smash a beorn’s leering maw with his shield. The beast fell and he hacked at its flesh, discarding the shield when it took too many arrows and roaring again as his axe split the beorn’s skull and the creature fell.

Great stones had been pulled into the way as chunks of wall to stop their charge up the avenue, monsters in the shape of massive corpse-fat snails released swarms of poisonous flies from their bone shells and skeletons the height of then men scythed through ranks with massive hammers, but it was not enough. The drow that had broken the gates for him, still shadowing his armies on the sides, filled the air with fire and curses that ate away the swarms. The Warlord’s steel fist hit the stone in front of him once, twice, thrice – and on the third the stone shattered in two. They clawed and pushed their way through, tearing into the dead as swarming the great skeletons until they were toppled down and taken apart on the ground like wounded beasts.

Yesterday he had failed to take the gate, left Catherine and the Procerans to hang, but today the Clans would remind Calernia why it had once trembled at the coming of a Horde.

The world was slowly turning red. The Warlord saw only in bursts, as if he was flitting in and out of consciousness, his Name carrying him like a river. Lead, it sang, and so the warriors of the Clans thundered down the avenue with him. A Revenant stood before him but he shoved his dead hand down the throat and ripped off the head from the inside, its fangs clattering uselessly on his scorched plate. Magic came down from above in curtains but he charged through it, sorcery dripping on armour like rain, and once through he barrelled into the enemy’s retreating ranks. A wyrm spasmed across the avenue, swarmed by the silhouettes of Mighty, as the Warlord and his warriors pulled it down with ropes and harpoons.

Then it was a hulking shape of steel, a great armour held together by the dead remains of a Name. The Prince of Bones shattered the tiles under them with a stomp, but the Warlord only roared as his axe dented the sternly frowning mask covering the Scourge’s face. It was strong as a monster was strong, the sweeps of its broadsword whistling through the air but still too slow. The Warlord stepped around the blows and struck, hacking away at the layers of steel until his axe was little more than scrap, and after that he caught the Scourge’s arm to take its own greatsword. Only when it came to strength he was outmatched, the Revenant unmoving as the Warlord’s feet were pushed back through broken tiles. The Warlord roared again, but from the corner of his eye he saw the Scourge’s free hand moving. A slap, he thought, that would be enough to spill his brains all over the stone.

Until it was caught, a stooped old drow shivered into existence and grabbing a single finger.

“My turn,” Rumena the Tomb-maker said, and struck with its free hand.

The Warlord grunted with effort, holding the Prince of Bones in place so he could not avoid the blow, and there was a great scream of metal before a wet crunch. The orc watched with muted disbelief as the Scourge’s head, a ball of metal, toppled to the ground. But there is no bone, the Warlord saw. The head was a decoy. A heartbeat later a mass of lightning came down on their heads, the Tumult’s hatred unleashed, and even as Rumena formed a sphere of Night around them the Warlord felt the Prince of Bones slipping away. He struggled to hold the Scourge in place but the Prince’s might was implacable and his fingers scrabbled down the steel, until at last they found purchase.

When the storm of lightning ended and the Tomb-maker ended its working there was no trace of the Prince of Bones, but Hakram Deadhand held in his grasp the Scourge’s own greastword as a prize. Dead fingers closing around it, the Warlord began to feel the red bleeding out of him. His breath slowed, and he began to feel the collection of wounds that covered his body.

“They retreated to the inner wall,” Rumena said.

“We’re close,” Hakram replied, and was surprised to find that true.

They had pushed two thirds of the way up the avenue, far faster than he’d believed they would.

“Can your sigils take the rampart, Deadhand?” the drow general asked.

“No,” he admitted with a grimace. “We don’t have the siege for it. Once we hit the inner city we’ll head north, try to link up with the Praesi.”

“I will leave sigils behind,” Rumena nodded.

“And you?” Hakram asked.

The creased old Firstborn grinned, the ochre and gold on its lips pulling up.

“I hunt,” the Tomb-maker replied.

General Abigail Tanner had been looking for the way out since she’d come in and it had been a little disheartening when she’d realized all the possibilities were literal dead ends. With her luck the bloody Dead King would get her, too, and unlike the Black Queen didn’t even have the decency to pay his officers. Stuck fighting forever without even a retirement fund? She’d rather die.

In, uh, a different way.

This whole Keter business had been awful, really. Not only were the soldiers in between her and Revenants dying at a frankly alarming rate, but for some reason the Third Army kept getting into the worst of it. It was like being forcefully saddled to a horse that kept looking for cliffs to leap down from. Even Boots, her perfidious old ass of a horse, didn’t intend to go down with her when it tried to shake her off to her death.

Abigail couldn’t even blame him for that. The horse had correctly figured out she was the reason he kept getting into situations where people shot at him, so in a sense she did have it coming. The part of this mess that absolutely did drive her up the wall, though, was she’d somehow ended up leading the vanguard of the Army of Callow again. How, when? She’d tricked General Holt into taking the lead this time and somehow she was still at the tip of the spear again.

“It must be a curse,” she muttered. “I know I haven’t gone to a sermon in a while, but isn’t that why you bribe the Crows?”

“You said something, ma’am?” Staff Tribune Krolem asked.

The bulky orc looked at her expectantly.

“I was asking about the word from Marshal Juniper,” Abigail hurriedly replied.

“She commends you on the initiative and gives you free rein to lead the Third forward as you please,” Krolem proudly said, flashing his fangs.

Fucking Hellhound, the dark-haired woman uncharitably thought, hanging her a length of rope and surely it was a coincidence she was already standing next to gallows. Abigail had long been aware that the world was unfair – come on, you only had to see how well Ellie Bilkers had married while being such a witch to know that – but it was a little much to find out that even now the world wasn’t unfair in her favour. She was a noble now! Lady Abigail Tanner, even if the name was one she’d come up with in a panic when she’d realized she’d procrastinated until she was due to give an answer to the adjunct secretariat. Not only some noble but a general on top of it too!

She should be going around in goddamn palanquins all the time while people threw themselves at arrows to bring glory to her name. Instead she was stuck going around on a miserable old horse, under a banner like she was just asking to get shot, and-

Panes of magic flared into existence, glowing blue, and caught the three crossbow bolts that would have punched through her skull.

Abigail wished she could say it was even just the tenth time the dead had tried that today. At this rate she’d die a porcupine and they’d bury her as bloody Lady Arrowcatch. Krolem, Gods bless his soul, began shouting and growling until mages blew up the rooftop she’d been shot at from in a volley of fireballs.

“I think it was as a Revenant this time, ma’am,” the orc said with disturbing eagerness. “Think it might have been the Hawk?”

Abigail figured not, on account of her distinct lack of arrow in the head, but she figured she’d let him have his fun.

“Could be,” she grunted. “Now, Tribune, what was it you were telling me about the League’s push again?”

The Grand Alliance strategy for the assault was straightforward, looked at on a large scale. There were four gates, one for every cardinal direction – wait, was that why the Black Queen was naming her mad city out in the mountains Cardinal? Shit, she’d just got that, why had no old told her before? – and there would be four thrusts at the inner city through them. Thrown on top of that was the breach in the southwestern wall that the Ram had built, which was the way through for the Army of Callow to do their own push.

Most of those attacks weren’t actually meant to reach the heart of Keter, in practice. The Procerans through the south gate and the Praesi through the north one were the ‘lucky’ winners that needed to get there, the rest of the attacks elaborate manoeuvres to get the pressure off their flanks. The orcs and the drow were coming in from the west, the League from the east, and the Dominion was to follow after the Praesi and serve as their rear guard.

The Army of Callow’s role was pretty simple: die over the same grounds as yesterday long enough that the Proceran left flank couldn’t get smashed by there.

“They were delayed, general,” Staff Tribune Krolem replied. “They ran into an entrenched position and were stalemated until the Bellerophans cleared it.”

The Bellerophans had cleared it, Abigail skeptically thought. Well, she supposed if you had to throw corpses at corpses you might as well go with the folk that voted on chamber pot schedules.

“So they’re staggered a bit, is what I’m hearing,” she muttered. “It happens. The Warlord’s pissing all over the opposition on the other side of the city, so I reckon it evens ou-”

Abigail’s mouth closed. Beneath her, Boots began to edge closer to the wall hoping she was distracted. She pulled at the reins to disabuse the treacherous beast of the notion. Please, he’d tried to throw her at one headfirst already. Like she’d forget. My memory is at least twice as good as a horses’, you fucker, she smugly thought. Yet the warm glow of her triumph retreated in the face of the ice that was welling up in her stomach as she tried to look at what the assault on Keter would look like from above.

She had no idea how well the Praesi were doing, but most their fortresses were still in the air so presumably not too badly. The Procerans had been doing pretty well too, their Lycaonese vanguard taking the hits for the rest of the army stoically so the conscripts wouldn’t start routing too early. But if the League had been delayed on the Proceran right flank and the Army of Callow was getting stalled short of the avenue on its left, then something was up. And now that Abigail thought about it, weren’t the orcs actually doing a little too well?

“Shit,” Abigail cursed.

The Procerans were getting baited to pull ahead of the protection on their flanks. There was room enough to hide an army in the space between the League thrust and the Proceran one, if you kept the League out of the avenues for long enough, and the little voice that had kept Abigail alive through too many hellholes to count was quietly asking a question: if the Warlord’s been doing so good ‘cause he’s smashing only half an army, then where’s the other half?

Now, if Abigail had been trying to kill all of the Procerans she’d do it like this: bait them up, encircle them, then throw a bunch of expendables in the way of the forces that could relieve them. After that it was just a matter of hammering at the Principate’s back for long enough that the levies routed and their formation went to shit. Considering the League was still far and the Army of Callow closest, that meant… The general went over the positions in her head, jaw tightening.

The Fifth under General Holt was trying to breach the barricades around the avenue head on while the First under General Bishara was going around by the west to flank the position, which meant the flanking force that’d pulled ahead to the east to begin flanking the barricades that way was the one that’d get those expendables thrown at.

“Krolem,” Abigail said with calm that she did not feel. “Have goblins scale the houses to the east. I want to know if there’s a force headed our way.”

There was already fighting there, of course, but those were loose bands of dead. The Staff Tribune hurried off as Abigail leaned over to pretend she was patting Boots’ mane, when in fact she was reaching for her saddlebag and getting out a flask she quickly took a few deep swallows from before putting it away. The brandy burned down her throat, even as panes of magic flared into existence again. Five arrows this time, huh. She was going to find out whatever mage it was that’d made this ward after the war and thrown gold at them until they made one she could carry everywhere at all times.

Krolem came back grinning, a sight that had been the herald of many a misery in Abigail Tanner’s life.

“Battalions of heavily armoured skeletons and some mage cabals,” the Staff Tribune announced. “They’re moving to hold our right flank.”

No, Abigail grimly thought, they were moving to prevent the Army of Callow from intervening when the Procerans got surrounded and butchered to the last. Like pigs in a pen, only fancier because Procer. Wine, maybe. Almost certainly cheese.

“I need someone to get to the Fourth Army,” Abigail said. “General-”

Only, she realized with dawning horror, though the Fourth was behind her Third to serve as a reserve and so it’d only be right they take this on instead of her, they were too far behind. And though they were technically closer to the avenue that went from north to south across Keter, that wasn’t where the reinforcements would need to be. They’d need someone covering their left so they could pivot their entire army to face the enemy coming from the right. Which meant the Third. Which meant her. And she couldn’t even try to pass this off to someone else, because the Hellhound had just granted her permission to ‘lead the Third forward as she would’.

Balls, she realized. If the Procerans all died and she could have intervened, she’d probably get court-martialed for it. Which meant losing her pension, and Abigail of Summerholm had not come out all the way to fucking Keter to lose her general’s pension.

“Krolem,” General Abigail sternly said.

The orc straightened up.

“Ma’am?”

“We’re pushing east,” she told him. “Our entire force. Someone tell the Fourth, we’ve got a greater good to pursue.”

“Saving the battle?” the orc breathlessly asked.

A mansion in Laure and to be drunk every day until I die, Abigail mentally corrected.

“Yes,” she lied.

“Bottoms up,” Catherine said, and after clinking her vial with the Huntress’ gulped it down whole.

The Concocter followed suit without the theatrics, rolling her yellow eyes at them instead, and the Range was already lying on the ‘ground’ that Masego had forged. They lay down, tossing away the vials, and within ten heartbeats Hierophant was surrounded by the corpses of four women. It was a somewhat awkward situation, he decided, even as he reached for the withered stalks of ground set down before him and closed his mortal eye, beginning to murmur his incantation.

He’d met the Silver Huntress and the Concocter in a professional capacity several times, and even once in a personal one when Indrani introduced him as her partner. Alexis had kindly offered him protection if he was being blackmailed into the relationship – which had, bafflingly enough, irritated Indrani – then looked rather irked herself when he’d assured her he was very fond of Archer and not being forced into anything. The Concocter had been much less mercurial, and charmingly learned in matters of alchemy. She’d even read the works of Lykourgos the Transmuter, which almost no one had! The man had unleashed several plagues that turned people into rabid animals, it was true, but that was no reason to ban his very well-written studies on transitive material properties.

Hierophant had not been worried in the slightest when he’d learned he was to be in a band with them, and they had proved to be just as capable as he’d expected. It was the last addition to the band that Catherine was leading that had nudged the situation into awkwardness: the Ranger, Hye Su. Looking at her temporarily dead form, Hierophant’s mortal eye narrowed as he considered whether or not he should murder her.

Practically speaking, she was no longer necessary. She had some worth as a guide in the realm to which they were travelling but she was not needed. The Ranger had already given the necessary artefact, the stalks of grass, and served her purpose as a guide. It would be bad form and Catherine would be cross with him, but practicalities did not forbid him from killing Hye Su. No particular affection was holding his hand either, his fathers having always been clear that Ranger was not like Aunt Sabah and Aunt Eudokia: she was dangerous and not to be trusted, even if Uncle Amadeus loved her. Masego had only met her a few times, and never taken to her.

He drummed his fingers against his leg thoughtfully, the incantation continuing unabated.

Hye Su was a threat, of this he was sure. Catherine had been very vague as to how she’d convinced the other woman to help, which he knew from experience meant she was hiding something she believed they would disapprove of. Usually an unnecessary personal risk she was taking. Ripping out Ranger’s soul while she was unconscious and casting it into a Hell before burning her body would see to that neatly. Killing out of fear, though, was wrong. People had to give you a reason, not just something you decided yourself. If the Ranger ended up being a threat, he could always kill her later.

Which forced Masego to confront why he was still itching to kill the woman: she had hurt someone he cared for. Indrani still spoke admiringly of Ranger to this day, but as far as Hierophant was concerned she had been unfit as a teacher and a guardian. That would not be enough to deserve death – both arms, perhaps – but Indrani’s claim to the Name of Ranger was. There would be conflict there, possibly combat. And Indrani was not replaceable. His life would be less without her in it, which was a sufficient reason to incinerate Hye Su so thoroughly there were not even ashes left. And still he hesitated, not moving to kill until he finished the first incantation and grimaced.

“She would be angry with me if I did,” Masego said. “Rightfully so. It is her conflict to resolve and it would be an insult to do so for her.”

Which meant the Ranger would live. For now. Besides, he had other concerns at the moment. His task was not an easy one.

Keter was, after all, fortified against extra-dimensional intrusions in ways that no other place on Calernia was. It was not only a matter of wards, though those defending the Crown of the Dead had been cleverly made and were nearly impossible to break. The wards themselves were a sphere that enveloped the city but they fed into a root-like system of escapements that meant overloading them would require so much power as to be effectively impossible. Trismegistus had then taken an additional precaution by having the physical anchors for them deep underground, to the extent that Masego believed them to be surrounded by magma.

Yet not even that had been enough for the lich, who had at some point decided to methodically annihilate every speck of Keter’s mirror in Arcadia. Not only was access barred, there was nowhere to cross from. Masego was unfortunately unsure quite how this had been accomplished – demons were his best guess – but instead of a crossing point in Arcadia all that could be found was interstitial void, an empty liminal space. It was how Masego knew for certain this had been done by the Dead King, as he had fought against the Spellblade inside a liminal space of fundamentally similar principles when he’d last come to Keter.

Accessing the void would normally have required setting foot within Keter, but Catherine said that would have been ‘giving away the game’ and instead they had passed through the broken shards of the Twilight Ways, requiring the Ranger’s guidance to move from shard to shard while avoiding the collapsing ones or those with edges. Remaining forever trapped inside a pocket realm or being cut into several dying but forever aware parts would have been fairly likely otherwise, much as he disliked admitting that relying on Hye Su had been necessary.

Masego hummed, pulling his magic close and feeling out the edges of the Creation with his will. From there it was only a matter of following the outlines and seeing where they connected so that he might find where the Hells – and the Heavens – were adjoined. These were the very basics of diabolism as a practice, because in practice finding a Hell was not particularly difficult. Finding a useful one, or even more difficult a specific one, to open a gate into was another matter entirely. Unless you had several advantages, it was a fool’s errand. Advantages such as, for example, casting from an adjoining liminal space where boundaries were thinned and having in your possession an object from the Hell you were seeking.

The dried stalks of grass in Hierophant’s hand had grown in the Serenity, their connection to the Hell by the law of sympathy running deep and wide.

Masego began to murmur a second incantation, tracing runes in the air to shape the effect of his will – movement, transition, stability – but even as he began his attempt to cut a hole into the Hell he frowned as the resistance to his sorcery strengthened. As the Ranger had intimated, the Dead King had hardened the borders of the Serenity. However sharp Hierophant’s will, a single mage – even Named – did not have the power to carve open a gate. A cabal led in a ritual might, but there would be nothing subtle or quiet about. But that was thinking of the crossing in the wrong way, as Hye Su had grasped.

When confronted with a wall a sorcerer could increase their strength to break it, but there was another way through: lessening the wall’s resistance to you. And the very means the Dead King had used to harden the boundary of the Serenity, millennia of necromancy, provided the way through.

They simply needed to be dead.

It was why all the others were lying on the ground around him, having drunk of the Concocter’s elixir of temporary death – save for Ranger, who simply stopped her heartbeat for a fixed amount of time – so that by creational law they would qualify as being ‘dead’. Masego himself would drink of the potion vial he had in his robes as soon as the spell was near being finished, trusting the formula he had crafted to convey the five of them across into the Serenity. It was not long before he reached that point, diabolism being more a matter of precision and power than skill or inventiveness, and without ceremony he drank the substance. It tasted faintly of mint, he appreciated.

Even as his mind began to swim he felt the swirls of magic intensify, casting his will beyond them. He felt out the boundaries one last time, to make sure nothing had been wrong, which was when he noticed the oddity.

There was something wrong with the Heavens. Or at least a part of them intricately bound to the nearby part of Creation in several ways and also… the Serenity itself? It was a Choir, Hierophant realized. There was a similarity to what he was Witnessing and a spell he had crafted with Tariq Isbili’s help. The smiting miracle, as some had taken to calling it. The Choir had been silenced, he saw, and though its power remained intact – angels could not be diminished – it was temporarily unable to be properly expressed. It was, essentially, a pot of paint without a colour. If called forth the Choir’s power would do nothing, he thought, unless additional properties were imposed on it by a third party.

If someone chose a colour for the paint, to continue the metaphor.

Of course, there shouldn’t be anyone able to do such a thing. Even Named would – only there was, he remembered. A band of five had been sent to follow the Dead King’s hint in the depths of Levant and found a fascinating story. The first Grey Pilgrim had once been smote by a Choir, only to survive entirely unharmed. The Intercessor could influence angels. And so Hierophant felt an inkling of dread as he slipped into the shallow end of death.

Because if the Hierarch was still holding back the Choir of Judgement, why was he now able to feel its existence again?

Otto Redcrown took the blow on his shield with a grunt, the undead’s blade sliding across the Reitzenberg sigil even as he shattered its head with a measured blow of his mace. His mount whinnied, hooves sending another corpse flying, and he had to pull her at her reins so she wouldn’t go wild.

“Steady,” he shouted, as much for his horse as his soldiers. “Don’t let them bait you.”

Those of his riders that’d began to pursue the retreating undead pulled back at the call, joining the thick of his men as they finished clearing out stragglers from the holdfast they’d driven the Enemy out of. It was not particularly dangerous work once the Binds were but down, the Bones reverting to the intelligence of mere dogs and lashing out blindly without regard for arms or armour, but the riders went about it with methodical carefulness. They all knew it would take only one mistake, and this close to finally ending the King of Death all their lives must be hoarded until the moment where they could best be spent.

Behind the horsemen his infantry had followed and was already breaking down the barricades to make room for the southern foot to pass, rolling away stones and tossing bodies aside. It had been a brutal slog to get here, but Prince Otto allowed himself an ember of pride as he saw the heights of Keter’s inner wall up above. They were close now, even though every devilry they’d beaten yesterday had been replaced by a fresh horror as they charged up the avenue as they had before the Titan Kreios’ sorcery had undone the battle. Far ahead of what he’d expected, and though his numbers were melting away like summer snow they were but a mile away from the rampart. There, at least, he would pull back let First Princess Rozala lead the assault.

The battle looked promising. Though the League had stalled early, Frederic had led two thousand horse to relieve them and word has since come back that Empress Basilia had broken through enemy resistance and resumed her advance. With the League screening her flank on one side and the unbreakable Army of Callow holding the other, Rozala Malanza would have the opening she needed to pierce through the wall. And once she did, the looming shape at the heart of the Alamans conscripts would do his part. The Titan would snuff out the Hidden Horror’s ritual and victory would no longer be beyond their grasp.

“Your Grace! Your Grace, they’ve come!”

Otto’s captain had shouted loudly enough half the army must have heard him, but the prince did not take her to ask for it aside from a dour look. Instead he followed the woman’s pointing hand and what he saw had his teeth clenching.

“You dragged your feet today, Grey Legion,” Otto Redcrown muttered. “I expected you an hour ago.”

Hainaut had mauled their numbers, for not even the fearsome Grey Legion could simply shrug off having a star and a city pulled down on their heads, but enough remained to be a threat. Two thousand and some, by the latest count. At tide of steel advancing with deceiving slowness, but Otto would not be fooled. He had seen them pass through strong shield walls like they were nothing but mist, each hulking shape a battering ram on the move.

“Form up,” the prince shouted. “Form up!”

He drove his mount forward to join his horsemen, but had to pull his reins when trumpets began to sound behind him. What was Malanza doing? It was still too early for her to join him out- the thought froze in in his mind as he saw that in the distance the banners of the rearguard were turning. The army was being attacked from behind. Trumpets to the east, trumpets to the west. Oh, Otto dimly realized. So that was the truth of it. They had danced to the Enemy’s tune, and now they were surrounded. Their path of retreat had been cut and neither the Callowans nor the League would get there in time. Prince Otto Reitzenberg breathed out, finding his calm did not waver in the face of certain death.

It surprised him, though perhaps it should not have. Some days when he closed his eyes he found himself back at miserable afternoon, watching his father and his sisters died until the reddened crown was brought form him to wear. The least of the Reitzenberg had survived that day, he’d often thought, but perhaps he hadn’t. Not really. Enough of him had stayed behind that he felt little fear at the sight of the steadily advancing Grey Legion. No, not even a little. It was only trepidation, the nervousness that came with finishing something your started long ago. Otto breathed in, looking at the darkened cloud. Ash was falling, but the sun shone through.

Before him there was a road, an enemy and a wall. He’d fought this battle before, as the last in line. Today he would be the first instead and there was fairness in that.

“Unravellers at the ready,” Otto Redcrown called out, voice steady.

The horsemen reached for the sheaths at their sides, sliding out the weapons. The artefacts made in the Arsenal before it ended were as wooden lances, though shorter and partly hollow. They would shatter on impact, but that mattered nothing: they were artefacts, not killing lances, and their purpose was not to punch through armour but to unravel the sorcery keeping undead bound in servitude. A simple touch was not guaranteed to do this, not against the Grey Legion, but landing a blow in the right place had a halfway decent chance of destroying the undead. It was starkly better odds than any other weapon had ever offered.

They would die, Otto Reitzenberg thought as the riders lined up without a word. They would die in droves, screaming and clawing at the dark, and perhaps those deaths would allow the rest of the army to make it to the wall. That was the last gift they had to give. The last prince of the Lycaonese held his unraveller tight and straightened his back, eyes fixed ahead. His sisters would have known what to say to comfort the soldiers now, he thought. His father would not have needed to say anything, beloved as he had been.

But all Otto Redcrown had to offer his people was silence and the spear in his hand, and so that was what he gave them.

“Oh mother, I held your sword.”

It was a boy who sang out. The voice was too young, too light, for him to be a man grown. The prince’s heart ached of it, as much sorrow as pride. Grief for another boy too young to die. Pride for the boy staring death in the eye and finding it in him to sing.

“Oh mother, I held your sword,” the boy sang again, and voices joined him.

He’s one of mine, Otto realized. The Farewell Sword was a song from Bremen, and though it was known beyond its borders it was his people who love it most. It was not like hard-eyed Hannoven pride, like the desolate boasts of the Neustrians or even the famously dark humour of Rhenians. It was a sad song, the Farewell Sword, for Otto’s people had an old sadness in their bones. How strange, that to hear it sung would feel a comfort now.

“Oh mother, I held your sword,” voices rose, Otto’s among them.

He reached for his mace, pointed it forward and without a word needed the riders began to advance.

“As I rode north to settle score

And bade farewell to the stone.”

The thunder of hooves on pavement almost drowned out the song as the trot turned into a gallop.

“Oh mother, there is no lord

To bring back the blade I wore

For I went and died all alone.”

The distance, so long when they had begun, was now so small. Swallowed in an instant until Otto could see dents and scrapes on the armour of the Grey Legion’s steel-clad dead. Unravellers were lowered, wood whistling in the air.

“Oh mother, I held your sword.”

For a heartbeat the world hung still, the fragile wooden length snaking forward as he leaned against his mount’s neck and the enemy moved to knock it aside. Too slow, he thought.

And I come now to return it,” Otto Redcrown screamed.

The unraveller shattered even as it hit the undead’s shoulder, screaming against the steel and digging in. Not deep enough, though, as the mass of steel kept moving and swept through the legs of Otto’s horse in a single blow. The horse screamed in pain, bones shattering, and the prince was thrown against the stone. He tasted blood in his mouth and his knees were throbbing, but he rolled to the side before his ribs could be caved in by a hulking step. He rose, moving behind the undead so he could strike at the knee joint with a two-handed blow of his mace. It dented the steel, enough that it crumpled inwards and began grinding against itself when the soldier moved.

He stepped back, but not quickly enough to avoid the blow entirely. The hammer clipped his shoulder, smashing through his pauldron as he was tossed to the grown like a ragdoll. All around him horses and men were dying, a thin wedge of riders passing through the Grey Legion’s ranks but most of them dying. Before the momentum had entirely passed the infantry joined them, half a dozen different accents in Reitz screaming themselves hoarse as they hurled themselves at the steel-clad monsters. Otto got back to his feet, jostled by men passing him, and dragged his armour back in place while swallowing a scream. He could have pulled back, he knew. Called for a change of armour.

He was a Reitzenberg: he would fight until the Enemy broke, or he did.

“In Iron Forged,” he shouted, and returned to the fray.

They charged the monsters and they died. Otto helped a bearded man smash the back of one’s knee and laughed in triumph with him when they brought the soldier down, a fair-haired girl that could be no older than fifteen smashing a hammer into the neck joint until the head rolled away and it stopped moving. A heartbeat later the bearded man was bloody mist and Otto pulled the girl out of the way, the two of them going back in as rider shattered a lance in the monster’s face and an opening was made. There was always another steel-clad monstrosity no matter how many were brought down, and as his people died around him Otto felt rage well up in his throat.

They wouldn’t even get through, he saw. They wouldn’t even clear the way for the others. They’d just die.

He screamed himself ragged as he smashed his mace into a steel soldier’s face, avoiding the swing of its sword but taking a backhand to the torso. He fell down, feet slipping against a pavement made slick by the blood of his people, and even as the sword rose above him in a blow there would be no avoiding, he grit his teeth and swung his mace as the sun shone down into his eyes. One last gesture of defiance. The steel soldier’s knee gave, but the sword was still coming down and-

Audace,” someone screamed in Chantant, and the tip of lance nudged the sword aside with impossible precision.

The sun blinded him still, but he knew that voice. Struggling to stand in the blood, Otto forced himself up in time to see the Kingfisher Prince plunge a sword burning with Light into the steel-clad undead’s neck. Prince Frederic Goethal of Brus laughed, his blond ringlets shaking as he ripped his sword clear of the falling soldier’s body, and raised his sword to the sun. All around them, Otto realized, the horsemen that’d gone to relieve the League were smashing into the side of the Grey Legion with their own unravellers.

Audace,” the Bruseni madmen called out, cheering as they drove deep into the enemy’s flank.

Throat dry, Otto reached out for his friend.

“Frederic,” he rasped as he caught the other man’s knee. “Leave us. You have to open the way for Malanza, else they will-”

“Peace, Otto,” the Kingfisher Prince gently said, catching his hand. “If there is a field where you die, my friend, I will not be far behind you.”

“We have to save them,” he croaked. “I can’t let them die again. I can’t, Fred.”

“And you won’t,” the Prince of Brus promised. “Look east, Otto. See what you missed when keeping us all alive.”

And he saw, then what it was Frederic meant. On the army’s left flank, where before there had been fighting, now instead there were fresh banners. Blue with silver Miezan numerals, a three. And with them, another banner he knew well: the Crown and Sword. The Black Queen’s arms. Reinforcements had come. The Third Army was here.

“How?” he finally asked.

“The Dead King might have tricked us, Otto,” Frederic grinned, “but he didn’t trick the Fox.”

Hanno’s steps stuttered to a halt.

“We’re here,” Christophe said, and immediately winced.

Likely castigating himself for having stated the obvious. The two of them had gone around the Proceran vanguard’s brutal fight with the Grey Legion, the Mirror Knight’s gaining turning more reluctant every time he had a look at the Lycaonese losses. Christophe had proved once that he could hold back the tide when fighting that same host, and now every time it fought without him being there to face it he thought himself responsible for the deaths. Hanno had sometimes been questioned for his defence of Christophe de Pavanie since the man took his fingers, but he could not think of a better or simpler defence than that.

Before them stood the second wall of Keter, the rampart that the armies would have to breach to reach the inner city and reach the Dead King himself. Though Hanno could not know how the Praesi were doing in their thrust from the northern gate, he could see how the Procerans had done and they were nearly there. It would not even take half an hour before First Princess Rozala began storming the walls and the Riddle-Maker could begin the spell that would silence the entropy traps. Once that was done, Named were to converge towards the palace where they would assemble in bands before going after the remaining Revenants and Scourges so that the way could be cleared for the Crown of Autumn and the Severance. Catherine, meanwhile, was supposed to be striking at the enemy from the back.

“Do we stay hidden until Her Serene Grace strikes at the walls?” the Mirror Knight quietly asked. “We’re here, Hanno. We could help them with the last of the Grey Legion.”

He had been debating the same. Though they were meant to remain hidden so that Christophe could not be targeted by the Scourges, would they really be able to converge here in time if they lent a hand? Hanno had his doubts. On the other hand, revealing the Mirror Knight’s position early was almost certain to warrant the Dead King’s attention: Christophe was, after all, carrying one of the means to kill the Hidden Horror. It was hard to justify anything to posed a risk to the Severance getting to that throne room. Before Hanno could consider the matter more, footsteps on a rooftop behind them had both heroes reaching for their swords.

But it was the Knight Errant who leapt down past them, that strange sword of his in hand, turning only at the sound of Hanno sheathing his own blade. The younger man looked surprised but pleased.

“Ah, I thought we’d have to look for you two for longer,” Arthur smiled. “Lucky us.”

The meaning of ‘we’ was swiftly expanded upon when the rest of the band followed suit and came down from the roof. Hanno’s brow rose when he saw there were only two more instead of four: the Painted Knife and the Harrowed Witch, the latter of which took her time to shimmy down the side of the house rather than leap. Kallia, leader of the band, offered him a grimace.

“We lost the Poisoner to the Hawk while the Prince of Bones distracted us,” she told him.

“And the Myrmidon?”

“We’re not sure she’s dead,” Kallia said. “She fell into a trap while killing a Revenant and the Tumult dropped about a ton of rock over her, but we never saw a body.”

“We haven’t seen a single Revenant on our way here,” Christophe told her, “much less a Scourge.”

The Levantine eyed him with distaste. Though the Mirror Knight had made efforts to mend bridges him, the Painted Knife was not of a forgiving nature and it was not in Christophe’s nature to keep his feet out of his mouth for too long.

“The Dead King is going after bands,” Hanno said. “He’s trying to thin us out as much as possible before we reach his palaces.”

“We figured,” Kallia told him. “I heard through Apprentice that Sidonia’s band got hit as well. I haven’t gotten word about deaths, though, only that there was fighting.”

Hanno’s stomach clenched.

“Did they get to the crown?”

“That would require taking the Archer by surprise,” the Painted Knife snorted, “and good luck to anyone who tries.”

Hanno was not anywhere as convinced, but he let it go. Neither of them could know for certain, arguing was pointless.

“Shall we go reinforce the Procerans?” the Knight Errant asked. “They could use the help, and the sooner we get the Titan to the wall the sooner we can seek out the Dead King.”

It was a simple enough question. And yet Hanno stilled to hear it. He knew what he was supposed to answer: they were all to wait until the Proceran assault on the wall began and only then intervene. That was what the plan called for. Getting the Severity to the Dead King was the most important thing, and though Hanno rankled at the thought he recognized the sense in it. Saving even a thousand lives out here on the battlefield would mean nothing if the Dead King won and everyone on Calernia died for it. And Hanno, looking at the same man who he was to protect at all costs, could not help but think back of the Arsenal.

They’d argued, there, about right and wrong. And though Christophe had been wrong about many things that day, he had been right about others. What single thing can we not be made to swallow, when it is put to contrast with the end of days, the Mirror Knight had challenged. What as a principle, if you did not keep to it in the dark? What’s a principle, when keeping to it kills everyone, a voice that sounded uncomfortably like Catherine’s argued back. Hanno found himself reaching for an old comfort, for the coin the Seraphim had once given him. Justice at the tip of his fingers. He missed that still, sometimes. Not having to rely on his own blind eyes to parse it all.

His fingers closed around the silver coin, the feel of its edges rough against his skin.

“Lord Hanno?” the Knight Errant said, tone hesitant.

Part of him wanted to tell them to do as they wished, but that was an abdication of responsibility. He had put himself forward to remain representative of Above under the Truce and Terms. He was to be the enforcer of the laws of the Liesse Accords under the Warden. To tell them they could do as they wished would be moral cowardice. In the end, he realized, it came down to a choice. Was it irresponsible to take the risk, or was it cowardice not to? Lives could be saved if he acted, but lives could be lost as well. Possibly much more than were saved. But was that really a reason not to act?

What had he cast away his own Name for, his place as the Sword of Judgement, if not to do something?

Hanno breathed out, looking at the sky, and felt a calm settle upon him. He rolled the coin between his fingers, and with a deft flicked of his thumb flipped it. It arced upwards, silver shining in the sun, and looking at it Hanno knew which side he wanted it to land on.

And so he knew what to do.

“Follow the plan,” Hanno told them. “Stay hidden and protecting Christophe until the assault on the wall has begun.”

Mutinous looks answered. The Knight Errant was the one who answered.

“We could-”

“I will settle it,” the dark-skinned hero simply said, “so follow the plan.”

He felt Creation quicken around him at the words. It had been waiting, hadn’t it? For his resolve to take shape. And now it had: if it was a risk to do the right thing, what you should be doing, then you simply had to be powerful enough it was no longer a risk. Hanno of Arwad slowly unsheathed his sword, feeling the first motes of his Name begin to coalesce. It was not there yet, he thought. But it would be by this battle’s end.

“Go,” he said, his voice echoing in a way that had them shivering.

Not even the young knight argued with that. They went, disappearing into the maze of houses, and the hero slowly turned his gaze south. He had work to do, he thought, and began to walk. Hanno did not look on what side the coin had fallen, leaving it down there in the ash.

He no longer had a use for it.

Interlude: Legends I

“Thus they gave oath;

To war ‘til the ends of the earth

Relenting not to love, dread or hearth

To league of hosts or pious chant

Until dominion returned to Levant.”

– Extract from the ‘Anthem of Smoke’, widely considered the founding epic of the Dominion of Levant

It was time.

Yara of Nowhere could still feel that much even after that vicious child had torn away her eyes. The ragged eyeholes of what she had once been – all the stories she had been able to Narrate – still remained, like a drunk groping for a bottle in the dark. So she went to one of those places that were not really places, where no feet could take you, and beheld the lunacy of a single man tying the hands of an entire Choir. A faceless, implacable sea held back by a stubborn dam denying it the right to pass. Forbidding the fish to swim, judgement to judge. Was there anything in the lay of Creation more impossible to break than pure, genuine conviction?

The Tribunal saw her, for she was not hidden. The Hierarch, little more than a burning swath of will and indignation, could see nothing at all. A stroke of luck, for in this state the merest trace of his attention would force her to Wander away – that nasty little authority of his would make her open her own throat otherwise, going through with the sentence the League of Free Cities had passed on her. That she was no longer of Aoede if Nicae didn’t seem to matter in the slightest to the authority’s boundaries, even though the right to pass judgement over her had been bound to the face. The Hierarch had always been a fucking headache of a man.

Yara would have reached for her flask if she could in this empty and too-bright place.

“Thought I’d come help you out of your spot of trouble,” Yara told them.

Agreement. Impatience. Curiosity. Why had she not come sooner? It was her purpose.

“All in due time, my darlings,” she told the Tribunal. “Besides, you can’t kill him.”

Dismay. Anger. The Seraphim felt shallowly but broadly, like an ocean three feet deep. Even after several millennia she was not sure why they had been made to feel at all. There was a time she’d thought they might once have been like her, learning just a little too much about the underpinnings of Creation to be allowed to muck about by the Gods, but she’d since stumbled over proof they had been created. Her best guess was that even limited emotional capacity improved their ability to learn and adapt to the ever-changing mores of mortals. Compassion had once been Reverence, after all. Like Role and Name, the essence could not change but the manifestation must adapt.

Yara wagged a finger at the angels.

“You know the rules,” she said. “You’re no longer being called and he’s not exactly attacking you – keeping you locked up’s not the same thing. I can’t just put my finger on your side of the scale and let you turn him into dust.”

Reluctant agreement. Yara could, but she had been lying to angels since before men knew how to forge iron.

“Of course,” Yara grinned at them fondly, “it doesn’t mean I can’t play favourites. I’ve got a way for you to get rid of our little friend here without stepping over the lines.”

Elbow in the side, a nudge and a wink. Stern disapproval from the Tribunal. They really were such bores, one of the many reasons she’d never gotten along with them. Their heroes tended to be fascinating, but the old birds themselves? Terribly tedious.

“Now now,” she mused. “Don’t give me that guff. I’m here to help, yes? Now, our old buddy-”

She did not speak either name or Name. She knew better.

“- can’t be bumped off, but you can do the opposite,” Yara told them.

Caution. Confusion.

“You can resurrect him,” she said.

Immediate anger. A reward, a prize, when the man was undeserving? Not fond of the idea at all, which was no surprise when it ran contrary to their nature. That was fine. She’d talked so many ancient monsters into their deaths she’d forgotten most of them.

“You’re insisting on thinking of it as a reward,” Yara of Nowhere said, clicking her tongue, “but does it have to be? Think of it not as bringing him back but as moving him.”

Caution again, but they were listening.

“Exile,” she smiled. “That’s a punishment, isn’t it?”

Reluctant agreement. And the trick here, was that they were going to have to rely on her. Because the Tribunal only did one sentence – yes or no, the flip of the coin – so for nuance they needed a mortal anchor. And with theirs out of their reach, no longer the White Knight and changing in his convictions, they couldn’t afford to be too picky. And Yara, for all her… imperfections, was here.

“We’ll send him somewhere out of the way,” she told them, smile broadening. “A Hell, yeah? Let him do Above some good dying.”

Caution remaining, the thought more nuanced than most they possessed.

“Sure, it wipes you out for a day,” Yara shrugged. “But you melted his body, it’s on you to make it again. And what’s better for Creation: silence for one day before you return in full, or remaining silent until the Last Dusk?”

It was no choice at all. Choirs could tolerate idleness for long, it ran against the fundamental purpose. Playing them wasn’t like manipulating someone with a soul, it was more like a jigsaw puzzle: move the pieces around the right way and it’d all click into place as inevitably as the rising of the sun.

Agreement, the Tribunal expressed.

Yara of Nowhere grinned, laying hand on the essence of them.

“Let me take care of that for you,” she said.

Guide, her soul sang, the authority seizing the underpinnings of Creation. One nudge to get the angels free past, one nudge to keep his eyes away from her and one last nudge to ensure he’d end up where she needed him to be. That was the most terrible of her powers, in truth.

Knowing the right place and the right time.

He landed in the grass.

It was soft against his bare feet, and though there was no sun in the sky above there was no lack of light. The breeze had him pulling his frayed diplomat’s robes close on his haggard frame, eyes blinking numbly as he realized he was seeing again. With his own eyes. He was breathing with lungs, shivering with skin. There was the scent of dung on the wind, and somewhere ahead a long field of barley. Beyond it, at the edge of the horizon, he glimpsed the sloping silhouettes of a village. People. His mind was open, never to be closed again, and so he could not help but Receive the sight of them.

He had seen this place before. Green land stretching in every direction, an endless expanse of villages and fields and rivers. Men and women and children that never went far from the place of their birth, taught that they were to be content and peaceful with mother’s milk. There were no dangers, no dooms, nothing to fear in the Serenity. Only one beautiful day after another, until one day you breathed your last and the Fair King called your mortal coil to the Lands Beyond. Some would have called it a paradise, a place without sickness or war.

Anaxares the Diplomat called it a lie.

The middle-aged man raised his hand, felt the breeze slip through his fingers and slide through the last of his sparse and greying hair. It was baked into the bones of this place, the insolent will that claimed itself supreme master of all that dwelled under the empty sky. He could feel it pressing down on all that dwelled here like an unseen sun, a tyranny so subtle and ancient it was no longer known as anything of the sort. But Anaxares was a son of Bellerophon, born under the stele, and he knew tyranny. It was not in his nature to suffer it silently.

The fingers closed around the breeze. His Name roused, groggily opening an eye.

“All are free, or none,” the Hierarch told the empty heavens. “I will suffer no compromise in this.”

His aspect lit up, and like ink in water began to spread. Spreading through the grass and the wind, the morning dew and the dim light of nowhere at all. Indict, the Hierarch had ordered, and the command burned away at the will holding this realm in thrall like acid. Breathing out, the old diplomat pulled at his loose robes and took a tentative step forward. The grass was wet against the sole of his feet, but it was no unpleasant. He still remembered walking well, he’d done much of it… before. So Anaxares took a second step, towards the fields and the village beyond them, feeling his aspect seep into the ground beneath his feet.

And where the Hierarch tread, serenity shattered.

Dawn rose over Keter, silent. Like a breath sucked in. Banners rose, armies moved and horrors stirred. Thousands knew, deep in their bones, that this was the last pass.

And so the Warden broke the Sword of the Rest over her knee, freeing Below’s stories at last.

The Firstborn had not begun at the forefront of this siege.

In some ways, General Rumena was thankful for it. The First Under the Night was showing consideration for the losses at Serolen and the great war for its borders, restraining her expectation and preserving their strength. It was a kindness. But part of it had been displeased, even as the Firstborn were relegated to guarding the camps under cover of dark and protecting the wardstones during the day. They had not fought, had not bled as the armies of the humans had. The war of the Firstborn had been waged very far away, far from the eyes of cattle, and their might doubted because of it.

This morn, as the sun rose over the Burning Lands, Rumena the Tomb-maker would put those doubts to rest.

Mighty clustered around it, those with the strength to see and to shield, and as the first rays of light scoured the sky the old general sat surrounded by a ring of obsidian and steel. It sunk deep into itself, into the embrace of Night. Deep enough that darkness swallowed it whole, as if it had stepped into the abyss. It breathed until it no longer felt the need to, the faint and distant sounds of thundering sorcery colliding against Night slowly fading away. Its will sunk into the ground, like the roots of an ancient tree, and as it breathed out it unleashed the Secret of Stone. Not as it had in Hainaut, fighting in the tunnels, or as it had in Serolen when fighting under the sky.

Instead it gripped the tides of the earth and moved with it.

Power flowed through its veins, raw and urgent, but Rumena gave a crooked smile as it opened its eyes. Even as it rose to its feet the ground shifted under them. It did not need to look to feel the movement, the bridges the Hidden Horror had broken sprouting anew. Stone and earth jutted out, charging across the chasm that made Keter an island even as spells fruitlessly tried to stop the assault. A bridge formed, then two. Three, four, five – Rumena stopped only at then, still keeping the Night clutched tight against its breast as it began to march forwards.

The Enemy came for its life with reckless hate. Storms of sorcery, arrows and bolts and every nasty trick the Pale King had learned over its many years of darkness. But what did that matter, when the finest of Mighty stood at the Tomb-maker’s side? Magic died in the dark, like a candle guttering out. Arrows were swallowed like delicacies, stones plucked out of the air like toys. Sigils burned around the general, Mighty laughing at the Enemy’s impotent wrath. And so it came that Rumena stood before the last gate of Keter, a mass of steel and sorcery set in great towers of stone.

It laid a hand against the steel, feeling the enchantments within try to bite at its skin.

“A strong gate,” Rumena praised, looking up. “Crafted cleverly, its magics mighty.”

The old general laughed, revealing crooked teeth.

“But it is set in stone, Dead King,” the Tomb-maker said, “and I hold in my hands the secret to it.”

It struck out, knuckles hitting the steel. The might rippled across steel, the sound of it like a gong struck, and twice more Rumena the Tomb-maker knocked at death’s door.

On the third strike, the gates fell.

The stone it was set it crumbled to pieces, dust in the wind, and the enchanted mass of steel fell on the dead behind it with a loud thump. Dust kicked up and General Rumena met the eyes of the horde waiting behind.

Before nine years have passed,
Keter’s gates will lie broken
as trembles Death’s holdfast.

It had taken an oath in the lands of Procer, sworn the sigil of the Rumena upon it. At last it stood fulfilled. It took a step forward, the ground shuddering under its feet, and around it the Mighty leaned forwards like wolves hungry to fall upon the fold.

“Chno Sve Noc,” the last general of the Empire Ever Dark laughed.

“Chno Sve Noc,” the Mighty shouted back, and Night sang with them.

The Firstborn had not begun at the forefront of this siege, but they would end there.

The Mirror Knight moved quickly, for a man his size in heavy plate, but as Named reckoned it he was slow. Hanno had learned to match his pace to the other man’s, as it would not do to leave him behind. He was, after all, serving as Christophe de Pavanie’s bodyguard. The Dead King had to know of the Severance by now, of the blade meant to slay him. And while the Hidden Horror might know better than to try to destroy something fated to slay him with his own hand, there was another way to ensure the blade never reached him.

Killing its wielder.

“It rankles,” Christophe suddenly said.

Hanno slowed in his step, falling by the other man’s side as they halted beneath a half-crumbled wall. A row of houses had been brought down into a makeshift barricade here, eventually collapsing into a ragged hill of rubble. From here, they could see the fierce melee ahead. The Lycaonese vanguard was tangling with skeletons, shouting war cries in Reitz as they tried to swiftly shatter the enemy’s ranks. The Proceran thrust into the city through the same gate as yesterday was to be entirely about speed: like an arrow loosed or a spear thrust, all the way to the inner wall.

“What does?” Hanno asked.

“That we do not fight with them,” the Mirror Knight said. “We could save lines, Hanno.”

The dark-skinned hero grimaced. That was true. But it was not the plan for a reason.

“We won’t win the battle in the city,” Hanno frankly said. “We cannot. Everything we do is to get to the Dead King and end this. That means-”

“That the Severance and its wielder must reach him,” Christophe curtly said. “I know.”

The Mirror Knight sighed, fingers going for the sword at his hip that was a mundane blade – at least compared to the one forged out of the Saint’s aspect in the Arsenal.

“But it rankles,” he repeated. “It feels like we’re abandoning them.”

Christophe was not the only one who felt that way. Named had not been entirely pulled out of the armies, but they had very much been thinned. Most of them had been placed in bands, roving to put down Revenants and find the Scourges, while a few others had undertaken particular tasks. The Warden herself had taken a band for such a purpose without giving an explanation except for a knowing smile. Catherine Foundling, Hanno had thought, was becoming unpleasantly fond of vagueness.

“Once we reach the inner wall we’ll have fights of our own,” Hanno said. “Most of us after the Dead King, but there will be other duties as well.”

“There is no chance of either of us returning to the battle,” Christophe bluntly said. “You must know this.”

Hanno did not disagree. They were both too useful to be spared for any purpose but the destruction of the King of Death.

“I know,” Hanno quietly said.

And it rankled, but what else could he do?

They began moving again, shadowing the Proceran advance, and the man who had once been the White Knight could only pray there would be anyone left alive in Keter by the time the Dead King ended.

Basilia had stormed the walls of Keter once before, but the horror of that day was a candle to the bonfire before her: though they were not even an hour into the battle, there was no longer a Penthesian army.

The Empress of Aenia watched the ragged remains of the soldiers and mercenaries the Exarch had scraped together for the campaign flee down the avenue, the undead leisurely loosing arrows at their back, and felt her heart clench with fear. Her forces had pushed past the Tombmaker’s bridge and the shattered gates in good order, clearing a foothold in the lower city, but that had been as far as the armies of the League got. What should have been a hard push into the enemy’s capital was instead turning into a desperate holding action, the enemy pushing in on all sides with frenetic intensity.

Basilia had claimed a tower as her forward headquarters, deciding the higher vantage point was worth the risks of attack as long as she had mages to protect the place, and looking down at her offensive she could already see the first signs of collapse. On her right flank the Delosi were already buckling under the pressure, the citizen levy and mercenaries losing ground as the flood of undeath came at them relentlessly. There were spurts of flame and poison whenever the krixilia threw themselves, the swollen ghouls full of burning oil and foul alchemies scrabbling as deep into the Delosi ranks as they could before exploding.

On her left flank the Stygians were holding, as much because the Spears of Stygia were as unflinching as any dead as because the Seventeen Schools of Atalante had finally taken the field. The priest-philosophers, a bunch of ragged and quarrelsome fools at the best of times, wielded Light as a painter would a brush: it curled and twisted, forming into arcs and elegant sweeps as it cut a burning swath through the dead. The Atalantians would tire, though. And when they did, the dead would again prove that a phalanx could hold them back but not beat them. That was the source of most her troubles, in truth. She spat through the window, seeing the faces of her generals were as grim as hers.

“If we are kept bottled up any longer,” Empress Basilia bluntly said, “we’ve lost.”

Grunts of agreement.

“Those small streets are murder on the mercenaries,” General Pallas said. “Their equipment’s too irregular to be able to hold proper formations.”

A problem that afflicted some of the cities more than others. Delos and Atalante had always heavily relied on mercenary armies to prop up their own mediocre hosts, and though Penthes usually boasted a decent force under professional generals that army had been melted into scraps during the conflicts that had afflicted the League since the beginning of the Uncivil Wars. Even Nicae, whose armies had checked Helikean and Stygian conquerors for centuries, had been forced to bolster its ranks with sold swords after the… war of succession that had dethroned the Trakas.

“We need to push further up avenue before they rout,” Basilia said. “Once we have, it, we can sweep around and cut off the flow of reinforcements that’s keeping us penned in.”

“The Penthesians just tried that, Your Majesty,” General Alexios flatly said. “It was no great success.”

An understatement. The Dead King’s commanders had barred the way up the avenue only irregularly, leaving room for the League to advance if it could break through the barricades, but that was because they’d turned the ground into a slaughterhouse. Houses had been collapsed along the length to turn the avenue into a funnel, and then further back collapsed again to turn into platforms for archers and catapults. The strategy at work was simple enough, after that. Keter had scraped together thousands of dead in armour wielding spears and arrayed them in heavy blocks.

And when the Penthesians had charged, trying to break through, the undead had begun firing mass volleys. They didn’t care about hitting their own soldiers, just about filling the air with arrows and stones. The Penthesians had bravely fought, breaking through two squares even through heavy fire, but they had dropped like flies. Fed into the meat grinder, they had been spit back out as bloody bones. Ad now, even as the last of them fled to the safety of allied ranks, the two blocks of spearmen they’d chewed through were replaced as armoured undead smoothly advanced.

They stayed there, silent and waiting.

“If we do not break through,” Basilia darkly replied, “the Proceran offensive will be at risk of being enveloped.”

And they could not afford that. Though the Grand Alliance was pushing into Keter from every direction, only two pushes were meant to make it to the inner wall: Rozala Malanza’s and High Marshal Nim’s. The other offensives were meant to cover their flanks and allow them to deliver the assets that would keep the Dead King from killing them all with this nightmare city and the sorcery that moved it. The Titan Kreios was with the Procerans, which meant their push could not be allowed to stall. The ancient Gigantes might be able to go at it alone, she knew, but it would be a risk. If he were to be slain then they would all follow.

There was something different about today, Basilia thought as her generals began to bicker over ploys that might take them up the avenue. The Hidden Horror had always been a fearsome opponent, but the tactics he employed today were… aggressive. He was no longer aiming at victory but instead at extermination. The Empress chewed her lip. He fights like a cornered man. What happened?

“- of course we need someone to march up the avenue, but there’s no army that can,” Alexios harshly said. “That much sustained fire is a guaranteed rout. We need to-”

“- a swift thrust forward is the only way, getting stuck is death. We should-”

It was Basilia’s wandering eye that saw the first sign of it in the troops below. The shift of the Nicaean back ranks, pressing closer to the beleaguered Delosi. A commander was making room for troops to press forward. Who? Though she had noticed from up here, officers closer to the ground must have as well. Basilia turned as a young man in standard scale burst into the room, paling at the sight of his empress and a gaggle of generals. He knelt, his bushy hair flopping around as he did.

“You have a message,” Basilia stated.

It was not a question.

“Captain Calista reports that the Republic is on the move,” the young man replied. “She sent a runner to demand an explanation and was charged with passing an answer the Protector of the League.”

Bellerophon. What were the madmen up to?

“Speak it,” she ordered.

The young man nervously cleared his throat.

“By a majority of seven thousand four hundred and fifty-nine to three thousand one hundred and sixty-four, as well as eight abstentions and three invalid votes, the Republic of Bellerophon has voted to serve as vanguard of the League. The Protector may proceed at her leisure.”

There were some laughs behind her, but Basilia did not share the mirth. She stilled instead, eye turning to the moving soldiers below.

“Ready all our forces,” the Empress of Aenia said. “I want our foot ready to follow behind them.”

“You must be jesting, Your Majesty,” General Myrine frowned. “The rabble will taste a volley and rout. They-”

“They voted on it,” Basilia cut through curtly. “They voted on it, general. It doesn’t matter if a hundred or a thousand of them die on the first salvo. So long as they have legs, they will keep walking forward.”

She barked out her orders. The Nicaeans were to reinforce the Delosi, keep the flank from bending too much, but Helike’s full must was to prepare for the push. And, ignoring the protests of her generals, Basilia Katopodis put on her helmet. She would not leave her men to fight alone. Sweeping down from the tower as her retinue trailed behind, she found her horse and mounted quickly. Already, ahead of her, she saw the Nicaeans moving out of the way for the advancing ranks of the Bellerophans. They were, she thought, so very close to being a mob.

The equipment was old, the manuals obsolete and most the officers drawn by lot. Some spears were tipped in iron or bronze instead of steel, the armour was a simple tunic of mail and their shields were of an oval shape no one had used in a few centuries. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to who had been added to the levy. Some of them stooped from old age while others couldn’t be older than thirteen, tall and short, limping and hale. None of them were soldiers, not really. It was a sea of farmers and bakers and masons that’d put on armour, none of them really trained. And as the frontline approached the killing grounds where the Dead King, they halted.

“Shields up,” officers called out. “Spears down.”

The citizens of the Republic of Bellerophon obeyed in disorder, almost laughably so, half of them beginning with the spear instead of the shield. And then, unhesitating, they began to march up the avenue.

Death answered.

Basilia’s knuckles turned white as she clutched her reins tight, seeing the score of deaths the first volley caused. Ballistae and catapults ran red furrows down the lines, arrows fell like rain and even a few streaks of sorcery burned through men like smoke.

The Bellerophans slowed, closed ranks, and resumed their advance.

It was madness, Basilia thought. The Republic’s army smashed into the first block of skeleton spearmen gracelessly, its own soldiers barely more skilled than the dead, and burst through even as catapults crushed entire knots of men with ever stone and smoke was blown into their faces.

After the third block of spearmen was shattered, stones were rolled down into their ranks from the heights on both sides. The wake of the great stones looked like bloody clawmarks from where Basilia stood, as if a monster had slashed through the ranks, but without flinching the Bellerophans did the same as they had from the start: they slowed, closed ranks, and resumed their advance.

Through hail and storm and smoke, through arrows and crossbows and javelins, through screaming ghouls and snakes with the faces of men, the Republic of Bellerophon advanced unflinching. It plodded forward like a donkey pulling a plough, steady and so terribly unhurried. A hush had fallen over the battle at the sight of it, even war cries petering out at the sight of such atrocious bravery.

Close to eleven thousand Bellerophans had begun the march up the avenue. When the army reached the last barricade and clumsy hacked it down, barely two thousand were left. And when they were done, when their walk through ruin ended and they finished what they had set out to do, the citizens of the Republic did not shout in triumph or scream boasts at the sky. Instead they offered the hordes of the Dead King the casual contempt of utter silence as they simply turned around and began their march back.

They’d achieved what they had set out to, after all. What else was there to do?

Empress Basilia watched them, that battered host of indifferent lunatics, and a laugh bubbled out of her throat. In their eyes she saw a light she had seen before, in those of a man she had never liked but had learned to respect.

“They still do you proud, Diplomat,” she murmured. “Wherever you are, know that.”

And now it was time for the Empress of Aenia to do her part. The Bellerophans had cleared the way, and behind Basilia stood Helike’s finest ready to dance with death. Not so much as a single slinking ghoul would reach the Proceran flank, if she had anything to say about.

Unfortunately for the Dead King, she did.

“HELIKE,” the Empress shouted, raising her sword, “WITH ME!”

Akua was becoming used to being handed godheads, a sentence that she would have been skeptical of even at the age of seventeen when she’d genuinely thought the world was hers for the taking. It was sadly typical of Catherine to keep tossing her the keys to divinity like they were loose change from her pocket. Also as usual, the unthinking display of trust had Akua at war between feeling tenderness and fury.

It was quite vexing.

“Hells, Hakram’s in a mood today,” Archer grunted.

The golden-eyed sorcerers cast a look at the fighting in the distance, where a torrent of orcish warriors was tearing through dug-in defences as if they were sandcastles. At their head the unmistakeable silhouette of the Warlord in his scorched plate was leading the charge, crushing everything in his way in a display of pure rage that reminded Akua of the reason her Soninke ancestors had learned to build enchanted city walls.

“His assault with the Levantines failed yesterday,” Akua replied. “He has something to prove now.”

Indrani grimaced.

“He’s not the only one who has things to make up for,” she said.

Akua laid a light hand on her companion’s arm, but as she had expected Archer was not hungry for comfort. Though the sorcerers found it absurd that Indrani blamed herself for not being in Keter to check the Hawk yesterday – she’d been with the League armies out in the Ossuary, as the Scourge had fought there until then – the Woe tended to embrace unearned guilt that they simply refused to be talked out of. It was endearing in the way that a three-legged cat might be. Somewhat charming, but likely to get them killed one of these days.

More unfortunate was that Akua had begun to dislike the prospect of them getting killed, which did her no favours.

Archer shook her head, shaking off whatever thoughts she’d been contemplating to cast a wary look around them. Akua had been keeping them under illusion as they moved from rooftop to rooftop as much as they could, only dipping down to the streets when they must, but there was no telling if the spell was enough to trick the Dead King’s many watching eyes. It was why they were staying relatively close to the offensive of the Clans, and near the avenue where the Praesi push under the Black Knight would take place. The chaos should keep attention off them.

The Autumn Crown that Akua carried strapped to her back in an enchanted container was risky to carry with only her and Archer for escort, but it would have been even riskier to keep it with an army. The Dead King was bound to be looking for the weapons forged to destroy him.

“Come on,” Archer said. “We need to keep moving.”

Akua nodded, adjusting the straps going down her back to ensure she wasn’t going to drop a godhead on the ground, and follower her friend.

As a child, Sargon Isaru had seen the face of Greed.

The Isaru had not been land-kings in centuries, their city swallowed by Istar’s ever-expanding borders and turned into a district of the capital, but the family was powerful still. Vast wealth and closeness to the Hall of Hearths had made them more influential than many who could raise armies with a stomp of their feet. There were some who would have been satisfied with this. The Isaru had not been, hungry for wealth and power and praise. For anything that might raise them above their rivals for the King Under the Mountain’s favour.

So they had sought to build a Great Forge, and why not? Their ancestors had been famed smiths once, known for clever devices, it was in their blood. And owning the thirteenth of the Great Forges would bring great prestige to the Isaru, as well as great profit when they began selling arms to the most belligerent of the land-kings. As for royal favour, Sargon’s mother had decided on a bold stroke: to dedicate the Forge to the god that within the king even before he passed and freed that divinity to stand with his divine kin. It was heretical flattery, but the man was not known for his humility.

Greed, Sargon had thought even as a child, it was all Greed. That deep and unrelenting longing that lay coiled in the heart of all dwarves, moving them to take and keep. A disease if left unchecked, but also if too tightly held back: you could go mad by denying your Greed entirely. Turn into a feverish animal that knew no reason, eating flesh and murdering for colourful pebbles. Noble families, good blood, must master their Greed. It was a sign of poor breeding, poor character to do otherwise. But Sargon had thought, hearing the older folk talk, that there was nothing mastered about this Greed. It was quiet and subtle, like a poison, and they had all drunk deep of it.

When the crust of the earth was punctured and the magma poured out, the Soul of Fire that angrily rose up was older than any had suspected. One of the old leviathans come close to the border between stone and fire. Sargon was there with the family when it rampaged, tearing through bindings as if they were clay and slaughtering thousands before it was driven away. A disaster that turned all the greedy hopes of the Isaru to ash in a single stroke as swaths of their district burned and dwarves choked to death in smoke-filled tunnels. Sargon learned a lesson about Greed that day, but not only that of others.

For in the moment where the Soul of Fire emerged, the silhouette of fire and smoke from the burning depths of the Deepest Sea, his mind could think of only one word: beautiful. The spirit was beautiful and he had wanted it, craved it in a way he would never crave anything or anyone save for Balasi. That awakening of his Greed, he often thought, had been the first step on his road to become the Herald of the Deeps.

“Delein,” Balasi whispered. “We are there.”

Sargon’s hand left his beard, which he had been stroking lost in thought. His lover – husband, soon, for who was left to stop them? – had the right of it. They had dug through the night, cracking open one of the old tunnels sealed with molten steel in the earliest efforts to contain the Dead King, and then pushed through tunnels until the reached the edge of the gap.  Over the centuries, Keter had dug so deep in search of metals for its armies that what had once been a tunnel at the bottom was now halfway up to the surface. The Herald of the Deeps eyed the smooth stone across the gap, still dimly feeling the pulse of power lying within.

“It is the right place,” Sargon said. “Beyond that stone lies the chamber where the magic comes from.”

“Our bridges are ready,” Balasi told him, “but it would be suicide to begin mining our way through.”

He watched his lover curiously, enjoying the sight of the skulls against the other man’s beards, and followed Balasi when he was led to the edge of the gap. Following the other man’s eyes below, he saw the source of the doubts. An army, Sargon thought. How many thousands of dead were down here, spread out among tunnels and depths? That and dark creatures, great white worms large as towns and flocks of cavern-bats turned into… something else. The Dead King had been waiting for them.

“We can’t hold the bridge,” Balasi quietly said. “Even if we take part of the army down to hit them as a distraction.”

“If we do not snuff out the ritual,” Sargon said, “the battle is lost.”

And perhaps Calernia with it.

“A blind pickaxe is no one’s friend,” Balasi grunted.

The old saying was open castigation, though mitigated by Sargon’s faintly amused knowledge that neither of them had spent so much as an hour of their lives swinging a pickaxe.

“I will act,” Sargon said.

Balasi’s face creased with worry.

“Without your staff-”

“It is my Burden, delein,” Sargon gently said, laying a hand on his arm.

Balasi pulled him close, into a soft kiss, and after they stayed close with the foreheads against each other.

“I know,” the seeker-of-deeds murmured. “I know. But you’re not as strong now and he’ll be coming for you.”

Sargon looked away.

“I am not sure,” he said.

Balasi uncomprehending eyes found his own.

“Was it truly a loss, breaking my staff?” Sargon quietly asked.

His lover seemed about to say as much, but he bit his tongue. Sargon shook his head.

“We strike,” the Herald of the Deeps said. “Tell the men.”

Balasi sought his eyes, then slowly nodded. His fist rang against his armour in salute before he hurried away. Sargon stood at the edge of the tunnel, looking down. So many, he thought. And so deep. There might be opportunity there, the Herald thought, but he was not strong enough to take it. He knew this, objectively, by the ways he had been taught. Without the staff and the bound spirits within, Sargon could not tear open the earth. Only… Are you seeking change, or just to add a rung below you on the ladder? Nothing words from a child reeking of angels, he had been ready to dismiss, but then Sargon had looked in the White Knight’s eyes and seen faith.

It had burned then and it burned now.

“So I wonder,” Sargon murmured, “have I made the mistakes of my mother, of the Isaru?”

Had he thought himself the master of his Greed, only for it to poison him unseen? It had all begun in that moment, he often thought, when the Spirit of Fire burst through the ground. And oh, how Sargon had wanted it.

“How many of you did I take?” he said. “Dozens. I called you and bound you, hung you from my staff like ornaments.”

And now that he no longer had the strength, now that he thought of those clear eyes and burned with shame, Sargon wondered if he’d ever mastered anything at all. He breathed out and his Words unfurled, resonating with Creation, and he felt the call to the Deeps being heard. As a child, Sargon Isaru had seen the face of Greed.

Perhaps he had been a child still all these years, to be facing it only now.

“Please,” the Herald of the Deeps said. “I cannot bind you, cannot master you.”

His fist clenched. And he never would again. He would not keep making rungs below his own.

“I can only ask,” Sargon whispered. “So please – help us.”

His words sunk into the Deepest Sea, below the burning waves, leaving only ripples. Sargon waited, watching and hoping. The depths remained dark.

And then they shook.

Like an anthill kicked, the dead began to swarm. The ground below them cracked, split, the earthquake shattering the stone. And light came, of light came when magma erupted in a fountain. Dead burst into flame, ran, as the Spirit of Fire roared its wrath. A small one, young, and still Sargon felt his throat tighten with shame and joy. It had come. He had not deserved it, but it had come. His Words rang again, and the Spirit of Fire sang back.

“Yes,” Sargon said with a smile. “Together. Let us teach them who the deeps bel-”

The depths shook again. He froze. And again, and again, and again, until the darkness below Keter burned red as the ancient scream of Spirits of Fire shattered stone. Small and large, old and young, they had come. Not one but dozens. And as magma swallowed hundreds of dead, as the air filled with twisting heat, the burning waves shivered. Something was swimming below. An old one, the leviathans of the Deepest Sea. And when it burst free, turning stone into flowing rivers, Sargon stilled. For he had seen it before, this Spirit of Fire. Long ago, when he took the first step down a road.

“Beginning,” the Herald of the Deeps softly said, “to the end. Were you with me all along?”

A song, a harmony more beautiful than anything he had ever heard. And when Sargon Isaru looked at the ancient spirit, he saw beauty again – but nothing more. The Greed was gone, and the Herald wept. The Spirit sang, comforting, and he laughed through his tears.

“No,” Sargon told it. “They are good tears.”

We can learn, he thought. We can do better.

“Then let us,” the Herald of the Deeps smiled, and his Burden unfurled like a flower under the sun.

His hands rose and the Deepest Sea rose with them, devouring armies whole.

 —

It had not been difficult to find people who would help her.

Though the fortified camps surrounding Keter were slowly emptying of soldiers for the last, desperate assault on Keter it was impossible to truly empty a war camp. So Cordelia had discreetly reached out for those soldiers she knew were most likely to stay behind, had convinced them of the necessity of what she was to do, and now the moment had come. The guards around the angel corpse, the ealamal, were already hers. That had been part of the terms of her abdication to Rozala Malanza. Now their ranks were swelled with Lycaonese and Alamans veterans – most Salians and Rhenians – as dug in positions were raised around the weapon.

Other soldiers were cleared out, a clean line of fire for crossbows established by pulling down any tents and shacks that might serve as cover, and Cordelia Hasenbach stood in silence as the few mages she’d secured began putting up the heaviest wards they could. She had not reached out to Named, even knowing some might be sympathetic, because it was sure to get to Catherine. The Warden was as a bloodhound for this sort of thing when it involved her charges, but there were simply too many soldiers for even Catherine Foundling to be able to keep an eye on all of them.

“It will smack of betrayal to some,” Simon de Gorgeault quietly told her.

She did not turn to look at the man who had once been one of her spymasters, then her Lord Inquisitor, and was not the last of her lieutenants. Brother Simon had no intention of leading the Holy Society once more, Cordelia had known that for some time, but he was still burning a bridge by standing with her today. First Princess Rozala would not forget it, or others more distantly worrisome.

“We will not step a foot beyond the ward lines,” Cordelia evenly replied.

“Even so,” Brother Simon told her.

He was right, she knew. But she would not take the risk. The fair-haired princess had the artefact that could command the ealamal, an angel corpse swelled with so much Light it purified the air around it just by existing, but that would not matter if the ealamal itself was seized. So she would ensure it was not, even if it had the look of betrayal to some. In truth, Cordelia would admit to herself, they were not entirely wrong to see it as such. She was taking on an authority today that had not been bestowed to her by anyone, because there simply wasn’t anyone who had that right.

“Then I will answer for this,” Cordelia Hasenbach said, “if we all live through the day.”

Her duty had not changed. She would keep her eyes open and her hand at the ready, because for all the valour of the Grand Alliance there was no certainty of victory today. And if the siege of Keter was lost, if the Dead King’s armies triumphed, then she would do what she must before the dead overran the camp and seized the ealamal. Before anyone, living or dead, could stop her.

If she must burn half of Calernia to save the rest, Gods forgive her but she would.

Chapter 63: Farewell

“A life without friends is a banquet without food.”

– Proceran saying

It was on a whim I took up a shovel and began to dig the firepit, but once the steel bit into the ground it felt right. Like I was doing something I could pour all of my mind into, enough to forget the blood-soaked day I’d waded through to get here. I’d not thought twice about where I began to dig, simply choosing somewhere relatively out of the way since I well knew there could be no hiding place in a military camp, and instead busied myself with the labour of it. Mantle of Woe tossed aside into the dirt, sleeves pulled up and hair held in bun, I shovelled clumps of dusty earth.

Vivienne was the first to come.

I didn’t hear her approach – Princess or not, she was almost as light footed as when she had been the Thief – but I felt eyes on my back and turned to find her standing at the edge of the pit. She looked as tired as I felt, her pale green tunic hanging limp on that slim frame. There was still a sense of regality to her, though. She was not wearing the circlet that had become her right after she was raised a princess of Callow, but the loops of the milkmaid’s braid gave the same feeling. Her face, though still sharp, had matured enough that her blue-grey eyes no longer seemed almost too large for it.

She looked like a queen in the making, a princess forged in the crucibles of the long wars we had spent half our lives fighting. There were days where looking Princess in the eye still drew complicated feelings out of me, but this was not one of them. Sweaty hand resting on the handle of my shovel, I found that today I found only pride. We made it to the end, the two of us, I thought. Caring about anything else just seemed unforgivably petty.

“You know,” Vivienne Dartwick said, “even back when we were enemies, Catherine, that was the thing I admired about you.”

I cocked an eyebrow, leaning my weight against the shovel.

“What’s that?”

“You never balk at being the one in the pit,” the Princess said, eyes unreadable, “getting your hands dirty.”

I brushed a bang out of my eye, unsure how to respond, but in a blink of my eye she’d gone. Not for long, though. The Princess of Callow came back with a shovel of her own, that standard-issue tool of wood and steel of the Army of Callow we’d taken the Legion pattern for. She leapt down into the hole, brushing her arm against mine, and took up a place at my back. Neither of us felt the need to talk, reluctant to break the comfortable silence of people who’d learned each other deeply enough not to feel the need to fill every void.  Instead we dug together. It was easier work with two pairs of hand on it, one of those simple little truths that cast a broader shadow than they should.

Indrani came second.

“Wait, I have something for this,” Archer mused, looking down at us from the edge of the pit.

“I feel as if am I about to be disappointed in many ways,” Vivienne noted.

“Something something royals holding big shafts?” Indrani tried. “No, wait-”

She chortled.

“Royally shafted,” Archer triumphantly exclaimed.

“Huh,” I said, then flicked a glance to my side. “I might have to start calling you Prophet instead of Princess, Vivi.”

“You barely even call me that,” she muttered.

“I know,” I sagely replied. “Won’t even take much effort.”

We might have kept at that for a while if a pile of dust hadn’t been kicked in our faces. I covered my eyes – both of them, out of habit – even as Vivienne began to cough and spit out the bits she’d swallowed. When I looked up, I found the afternoon sun shining at Indrani’s back as she scowled at us and wagged a finger.

“Don’t flirt when I’m trying to annoy you,” she chided us. “It’s rude.”

“I feel like no one ever taught you how to flirt and we’ve all been paying for it ever since,” Vivienne told her.

Wow, I thought, sending her an admiring glance. That’d been a little savage.

“’Cause you’re known as a great mistress of the subtleties of seduction, Dartwick,” Indrani skeptically replied.

Vivienne cocked an eyebrow, then turned towards me. She leaned close hand coming to hold my neck from the back, and even as she pulled me close she dipped me down. This was, I mused, embarrassingly close to a daydream I’d entertained once or twice back in the day.

“Catherine,” Vivienne gravely said. “Let’s slay your enemies in battle, drink too much table wine and then ignore important paperwork to have a tryst on your desk instead.”

I blinked, then turned to shoot at a look at a befuddled Indrani.

“She’s hitting all the right notes,” I admitted. “Damn, maybe you should learn from her.”

Indrani scowled and kicked dirt into our faces again, which alas had the mistress of seduction dropping me unceremoniously so she wouldn’t be made to eat dirt quite literally for the second time. Though this was a foul betrayal I recovered from the disappointment and got back to my feet, just in time to see Vivienne smugly smiling at Archer – who seemed unable to decide whether she was irritated or amused. It was a good look on her, brightening the hazelnut eyes her darker skin and green scarf already made pop out. Indrani had always been beautiful in moments, those stolen heartbeats where she was so incandescently alive, and between the sun and the smirk pulling at her lips this was one of them.

It passed, and I reclaimed my wits.

“So what’d you come here for?” I asked. “It better not be kicking earth back into our firepit, ‘Drani, or I’ll be cross.”

“Been going around getting my hands on bottles since you got the ball rolling,” she said, “but they’re running out and no one wants to sell theirs anymore. I need your seal to crack open you army’s last crates.”

I grunted, not entirely surprised that I wasn’t the only one intending to drink myself insensate tonight. It’d been a dark day and tomorrow didn’t look much brighter, plan or not.

“Take whatever you need,” I shrugged.

“Already tried that,” Indrani idly said, “but you changed the lock. Tell your phalanges to help, would you?”

Wasn’t hard to find one of the adjunct secretariat’s officers looming around – there was always one kicking about wherever I ended up, a habit Hakram had instilled them – and I got that sorted, sending Indrani back on her way. By the time I returned, Pickler had shown up. She was pacing around our pit, muttering under her breath, and almost ran into me. Her head would have reached higher on my body than I cared to admit.

“Have you started talking to yourself?” I asked. “Because they don’t let you get away with that without there being talk until you’re a priestess, in my experience.”

“Yes, yes, all hail the Crows,” Pickler dismissively replied. “May the Matrons perish trying to bite a chunk out of them, preferably after I’ve gotten good seats to watch the whole thing.”

“Your faith is touching, Sapper-General,” I drily replied. “I’ll pass the word along.”

“You do that,” Pickler told me, then poked my chest with an accusing finger. “Did you know your pit’s half a foot too deep and nowhere near large enough? We’re cooking pigs, not digging a tunnel.”

“We’re not finished yet,” I defensively.

“I was just following orders,” Vivienne called out from below, the treacherous weasel.

“You should have taken the engineering classes at the War College instead of that useless stuff you picked up instead,” Pickler told me.

My brow rose.

“Tactics and Strategy?” I drily asked.

“Yes, those,” the goblin told me, undaunted. “Haven’t tactiqued or strategized your way into digging a proper firepit yet, have you Foundling?”

I opened my mouth to object, then closed it. I raised a finger, tried again, then my teeth clicked closed under Pickler’s satisfied yellow gaze.

“Just tells us how to dig,” I finally sighed.

“An hour late, but there’s only so much you can expect out of humans,” my Sapper-General allowed.

“I’m going to write you up for discrimination, High Ridge, see if I don’t,” I muttered under my breath.

We were nearly done making something to Pickler’s satisfaction when Aisha showed up, legionaries carrying cart of firewood following in her wake. I took the opportunity to drag myself out of the pit, wipe my face with a cloth and guzzle down water from a skin. I was even generous enough to pass it to Vivienne afterwards, though not so generous I didn’t do that by throwing it at the back of her head. The noise it made hitting her was most satisfying. Aisha watched me with laughing eyes, her lovely heart-shaped face pulling into the hint of a smile.

“Juniper’s gone to pick out the pigs herself,” she told me. “She’d having fun dickering with the Fourth’s quartermaster for Vale hogs.”

Famously the fattest meat in Callow, which had me salivating already.

“Archer’s handling drinks,” I said, “but have we got anything except the meat on the way?”

Dark eyes moved to study me with sudden intensity.

“Kilian,” Aisha said with deliberate nonchalance, “offered to get a cauldron of dirty rice going.”

Rice mixed with oil, onions, tomatoes and up to half a dozen other ingredients depending on where in Praes the recipe came from – apparently Wolofites added bananas while Aksumites swore by ginger. Mind you, it was the dish that had her looking at me like I might be on the verge of biting her nose off. Kilian hadn’t been at one of these since we’d parted ways, at first because she’d declined invitations and later because I’d stopped asking. I honestly wasn’t sure how I felt about her trying to get a foot back in now, but I didn’t have the heart to refuse her. Not tonight of all nights.

“That’ll do,” I nodded. “Remind her to get the cauldron here early. You know how territorial Juniper gets when the pigs are on spits.”

“It’s rather endearing,” Aisha agreed with a fond smile.

Not exactly what I’d been getting at, but uh – good for her? I finished the pit to Pickler’s exacting specifications and then left her to haranguing legionaries into putting the firewood in the right sort of stacks, helping Vivienne out with a hand that she’d didn’t particularly need.

“We could probably use a wash,” she said, taking a sniff at the both of us.

I wiggled my eyebrows.

“Trying to impress anyone?” I teased. “Thought you were one of those chaste maiden kind of princesses, Dartwick.”

“I’ve thought about it,” she admitted. “There are some men I could see myself taking to bed with an assurance of discretion.”

“Might be our last night,” I quietly told her. “We have a chance, Vivienne, but there’s nothing certain about this. Take your comforts where we can.”

She smiled at me.

“If it is my last night,” Vivienne said, “then I would rather spend it with the lot of you then with a stranger. It’d be a greater comfort than a lay, however pleasurable.”

“You say sweet things, sometimes,” I smiled back.

“You really need to bathe,” Princess then told me, wrinkling her nose.

I sighed. I couldn’t even blame her for that entirely. I’d trained this into all of the Woe, because… I blanked. There must have been a reason at someone point, I reassured myself. Surely. I was still desperately trying to recall what it might be when I took my friend’s advice and began to limp towards my tent, where I was due a wash and a nap.

I woke half an hour before dusk, pleasantly refreshed. I splashed my face with tepid water to finish clearing out the last dregs of sleep, then pulled on a clean black tunic and took the time to sit and massage my bad leg for a while. It wasn’t throbbing as badly as I’d thought it might after the battle I’d been through. It could have been-

Get them all home, Catherine.

My stomach clenched. My throat was dry. And a heartbeat later I dropped my leg with a hiss of pain, the marks on the skin where my fingers had dug in red and visible. I’d forgot, just for a moment, why it was I’d gone to dig a pit. My friend was dead. Roland had been taken by an arrow that had been meant to kill me. Why else the poison that reacted to Night, the very power I would have called on to lessen my wound? Akua had been shot too, and there had been no poison in her. With the Varlet destroyed last year and the aspect that had made this thus lost, it was likely too rare to be used any way other than sparingly. Neshamah had meant to kill me and come so very close. I need to be better, I thought, fingers clenching. More careful. To see the next one coming.

Or else more friends than Roland de Beaumarais would get killed trying to keep me alive.

I put on the Mantle of Woe, more for the comfort of its weight than a need for the warmth, and slipped out of my tent. It was a childish thing, to flee the place where the dark thoughts had come, but I indulged them impulse anyway. I didn’t feel like talking with the two phalanges that began to walk behind me, or with anyone at all, so I briskly turned a corner and pulled down a veil of Night to cover me. I shook them off, limping deeper into the Army of Callow’s camp, and let the noise of my soldiers wash over me.

There was a frenetic energy to the camp. It wasn’t quite despair – we’d taken a licking today, but we’d still gotten deep into the city before retreating – but it was a cousin of sorts. Every last of my soldiers knew they could die tomorrow. Some of them remembered dying today, saved only by a Titan’s will. No one wanted to be alone tonight, or leave things undone they might never get the chance to finish. Stashes of liquor and smokes were being blown through, grudges being settled or set aside and then the opposite of grudges: more than a few of my soldiers had snuck off into dark corners to fuck with someone who’d caught their eye, or even simply someone that was there. It felt like the aftermath of a summer fair, only without the good singing voices.

There was some theatre though, I found.

Some bold souls had decided to spend their last night in Keter’s shadow putting on a trick play, which had drawn a large crowd of legionaries in varying degrees of inebriation. The Barber and Edward play was putting them in a fine mood, and it was loud laughter that’d drawn me there in the first place. I stood at the edge of the crowd, listening in, and found the premise hadn’t changed. It was still about the cunning goblin sergeant Barber, whose beauty drew suitors like moths to the flame, and the grim squire Edward whose strokes of good luck always ended unmade by his need to get even with his enemies. As was customary, between the two of them they got in a lot of mockery and dead foreigners which was exactly the kind of play my soldiers were in the mood for.

I was still taken aback by the sheer fucking audacity of it when I saw a goblin with bones glued on try to get to Barber to read her poetry only to get his head cut off by Edward – only for another bone-wearing goblin to pop up at the edge of the stage and try again. Those were, I realized with a shocked grin, the fucking Dead King.

“I would love you forever, beauteous star without a rival,” the goblin Dead King crooned.

“Not even if I were dead,” Barber scathingly replied.

Edward cut off Neshamah’s head again, wiping his brow exaggeratedly afterwards.

“We’ve been at this all afternoon,” the squire complained. “Maybe you should reconsider the suit, Queen Barber has a ring to it.”

Barber, who had not known the Dead King had a kingdom before, then hatched the plan to marry him and immediately bump him off so she could inherit Keter. It devolved quickly into slapstick humour as a bunch of heroes tried to crash the wedding only for their attempts to kill the Dead King to get in each other’s way and prevent Barber from speaking the vows. I was halfway to leaving when I noticed that the priest that had been about to officiate the wedding was suddenly dragged off stage, replaced by someone with a fake beard. Someone with a staff and a tattered cloak of many colours. The goblin Dead King peered at ‘me’.

“Have I met you before?” he asked. “You seem familiar.”

“Never,” the Black Queen replied. “Unrelated, but do you have any particular weaknesses someone might use to kill you for good?”

The Dead King’s yellow eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Why do you ask?”

“It’s part of the traditional Callowan wedding ceremony,” the Black Queen lied.

Two goblins dressed in black popped in behind her, cawing their hearts out as they flapped the wings of large wooden crows that they made perch on the Black Queen’s shoulders. She batted them away in a panic.

“Coincidence,” the Black Queen assured the betrothed. “I must have had some seeds on my cloak.”

The crows kept coming back, though, forcing her to make increasingly tortured explanations, and with a grin I pulled on Night. The next time the crows flew off, I replaced them with two feathered apparitions I’d woven out. The Black Queen actress stiffened and the crowd stilled.

“Nothing to see here,” I made one of the crows say.

“We have invitations,” the other one insisted.

The sound was so sudden it was like a sharper had just blown: the roars of laughter approval drowned out everything else, a quarter of the crowd looking around to see if they might find me. I was gone before anyone got too enterprising, though, disappearing into the avenues.

 I had a fire waiting for me.

Most of them were already there when I arrived.

Juniper was turning her spitted pigs and loudly arguing with Vivienne about whether ‘catapults’ could ever be legitimately be an item in a royal budget, though I couldn’t help but notice that unlike the way it would have been a few years ago the two of them were smiling. Aisha and Masego were playing shatranj as they sipped glasses of wine, Indrani draped over his shoulder and giving him terrible advice  he was duly ignoring, and Pickler was halfway through a mug of ale larger than her head as informed the lot of them that goblins had a game like shatranj, only the rules changed and you could get stabbed if you lost. Indrani looked worryingly interested.

The sight that had me shuffling in discomfort, though, was Kilian of Mashamba leaning over her cauldron of dirty rice with a long spoon in hand as she calmly spoke with Akua Sahelian. I’d never seen them together before, and hadn’t quite grasped how much taller than her Akua was – Kilian was barely taller than me, after all. I slipped in close before I could get noticed and got to eavesdrop a bit on the conversation.

“- and Ratface used to put saffron in it by the handful, which was odious,” Kilian was saying. “He was a deft hand with chicken dishes, but not a man you wanted anywhere near rice.”

“We have a family recipe with fried peppers in it,” Akua told her. “A few generations back, one of my kin actually had another assassinated over-”

Golden eyes found me, and I forced nonchalance as I approached them. Kilian looked hesitant when she noticed I was there, her fair face closing, so I limped closer to lean over the cauldron and breathe in the vapour.

“Smells good,” I said, clapping her shoulder.

I would have lied if it didn’t, but I hadn’t had to.

“Rat Company recipe,” Kilian replied with a relieved smile. “They used to teach us in our first year.”

I blinked in surprise.

“I never was never taught it,” I pointed out.

“I would surmise you also never had to cook, darling,” Akua amusedly said. “Did you not become company captain within days of first joining?”

“It was Ratface’s idea,” I pointed out, perhaps a tad defensively.

“Of course it was,” Akua easily smiled.

I narrowed my eye at her, only then noticing the startled look that Kilian was giving the both of us. It left me feeling strangely naked, so I excused myself to grab a drink instead of lingering. The strangeness quickly faded, leaving me instead to sink into the warmth of the company I was keeping. I spent most of my time bickering with Indrani about whether or not some poet I’d never head of should be considered a classic – absolutely nod, I’d never heard of them – and stealing pieces from the shatranj game that Pickler had insisted she would beat Aisha at since she’d beaten Zeze. Since the good lady Aisha Bishara ensured my glass stayed full, in an act of brazen quid pro quo I ensured that her pawns never stayed more than two turns off the board when they were taken.

It got bad enough Masego started to cheat against her, which naturally drew Indrani into it and therefore utter chaos.

I was grinning up to my ears by the time Juniper declared the pigs were ready, a signal that the traditional ritual was about to begin. We all gathered with our plates as the Hellhound began making her cuts, as usual beginning with the naked favouritism that was Aisha getting the first place the best pieces. Masego cocked his head to the side.

“Why is it that she always goes first?” he curiously asked.

Juniper turned a gimlet eye on him.

“She’s the only one of you lot that removes headaches from my life instead of adding them,” the Marshal of Callow growled.

“Oh, that seems fair then,” Zeze plainly agreed.

As usual, the use of Masego’s most dangerous weapon – sincerity – disarmed his opponent without contest. Not so much that she didn’t slap Indrani’s hand away when she tried to carve out a piece from the side of the pig, though. Still, looking at them all I could not help but feel something was slightly wrong. The last time we’d done this, in Hainaut, there’d been… Ah, I thought. There’d been Hakram. He had been invited, Gods of course he’d been, but he was also the Warlord and our camp was not the only one lit up tonight.

“Ah, just in time.”

I turned and coming out of the cold were two silhouettes. One I did not recognize, an orc with long fangs and scarred-up shoulders bared by the leather tunic she had on. Big girl, shorter than Juniper but noticeably broader. The other one, though, was a prayer I’d not voiced answered. Hakram stood easily on his prosthetic leg, a loose coat fur over his tunic, and offered me a smile.

“I don’t suppose you have two more plates?” the tall orc asked.

“I think we’ll find some lying around,” I smiled back.

“Sigvin!” Indrani called out. “Though he might drag you here. Come on, sit with me.”

Ah, so that was who. Sigvin of the Split Tree Clan was, if Archer was to be believed, the closest thing Hakram had had to a lover in the time we’d known him. They didn’t keep to each other’s bed only, she said, but she was sticking around and he didn’t seem to mind at all. Bet it had something to do about the scars, I mused. I still remembered how wild orc girls had gone over his after he scrapped with Vivienne and the Lone Swordsman. Sigvin’s face betrayed no nervousness, but there was something of it in her stance. There were, I supposed, a lot of famous names gathered here tonight. She stepped forward, though, and after offering me a curt bow pressed two bottles into my hands.

“Aragh, Warden,” she said. “A gift for your fire.”

I met her eyes solemnly.

“Where have you been all my life, Sigvin?” I asked.

That got Indrani laughing, and Aisha as well, which bled some of the tension out. Hakram shot me a knowing look as he passed me by, gently brushing his shoulder against mine in unspoken thanks. I sat with him, Akua by complete coincidence happening to sit on my other side as Juniper finished doling out her cuts and we settled down to eat. With full bellies and plenty to drink, we settled down around the fire and the conversation remained lively. I let myself be drawn into a debate by Vivienne about whether or not the Exiled Prince would have been able to beat the Barrow Sword in a fight-

“Absolutely not,” I firmly said. “Ishaq’s ridiculously hard to kill and he can even use Night now.”

-but afterwards I took step back for a bit, pulling up my pipe to indulge in wakeleaf as I watched them. It was a balm of the heart to see them like this. Masego idly playing with Indrani’s hair as she rested her head on his lap, Pickler drawing something in the dirt that Aisha and Sigvin were look rather skeptically at, Juniper looking appalled as Akua told her about secret Tower histories and both gestured animatedly in the firelight. Vivienne was chatting with Kilian by the pigs, the redhead tracing a few symbols of light in the air that the Princess was shaking her head at. Slowly, I felt something loosen in my gut as I pulled at my pipe and blew out a stream of smoke.

“I missed these,” Hakram quietly said.

I’d heard him coming, but we had kept silent until now as I watched and smoked. There was no sense of hurry to the air.

“I’m glad we got to do it before the end,” I murmured. “It wouldn’t be the same, going into the dark without first having sat by the fire.”

He slowly nodded. I was seated and he standing, the two of us apart from the rest. It was a familiar feeling, though somewhat bittersweet.

“Tomorrow,” he began, then trailed off.

“There’ll be the battle,” I said. “And then after. When that time comes…”

“I’ll find you,” the Warlord said. “I can still feel it, you know.”

I glanced at him, found his face pulled tight.

“The pull,” he elaborated when I said nothing.

My lips quirked.

“And this surprises you?”

He did not answer, which was as good as an admission it did.

“I told you, Hakram Deadhand,” I said. “When the Woe will fight, where would you be if not with us?”

I meant it, I did not speak out loud. You’re still one of us. He stayed silent for a long time.

“I will not be the Warlord forever,” he suddenly said.

“You’ll need to step down eventually,” I agreed. “Else they won’t know how to be without you in charge.”

He nodded.

“When that day comes,” Hakram gravelled. “I-”

I raised a hand, interrupted him.

“Don’t feel like you have to make that promise,” I said. “Wasn’t that the point of all this?”

“You should have let me finish,” he snorted, baring fangs in amusement. “I could think of worse places to retire to than Cardinal.”

It wasn’t quite an offer, I thought, or a promise. But it was something. There was a lump in my throat I couldn’t quite swallow, so instead I took his hand. The dead one, the skeletal fingers that he’d come into fighting for me. I squeezed them and he squeezed them back. I sighed, closing my eye, and for a moment allowed myself to lean my head against his side and rest. It wasn’t the same it used to be, I thought.

But that didn’t mean it couldn’t be good.

When it all wound down, when everyone was drunk and began to fall asleep around the dying fire, after Hakram and Sigvin had gone, I still sat wide awake. Vivienne was snoring under a blanket and drooling on a log, Pickler draped over her and somehow not awoken by the racket.  Juniper and Aisha were whispering softly in a corner, Indrani had gone off to get water for an unusually dead drunk Masego to drink before he fell asleep and I found myself with Kilian of Masham standing before me. She had not grown any less beautiful in the years since we’d parted ways, I thought as I watched the paleness of the moon caress her skin and light up the green of her eyes.

“Thank you,” Kilian softly said. “For saying yes.”

I could have pretended I didn’t know what she was talking about, but it would have been unworthy of the both of us.

“They’re your friends too,” I said. “I wouldn’t keep you from them on a night like this.”

Her lips quirked in a rueful smile I knew well.

“And us, Catherine?” she asked. “Are we friends?”

I could have told her that I’d once offered her that and she had turned it away, but the bitterness of that would have left a poor taste in the mouth. It was a done business, done long ago at that.

“No,” I honestly said. “But that’s the choices that were made.”

She nodded, and I found her face hard to read.

“I suppose we aren’t,” Kilian agreed, then glanced at the others. “It’ll get cooler out, later on.”

I cocked my head to the sight. Her eyes found mine, steady.

“It would be warmer in my tent,” she offered, and I stilled.

We both knew what she was truly offering, and it would have been a lie to say I wasn’t at least a little tempted. She had, after all, not stopped being beautiful. And I had fond memories of her behind closed doors, for all that had come after. But it was only a passing thing, soon gone. It was, as I had just thought, a done business. Pretending otherwise would be sweet, for a time, but it would be a sickly sort of sweetness.

“I’ve gotten used to the cold,” I gently replied.

To my surprise, she smiled.

“I didn’t think you’d say yes,” she admitted.

I cocked my head to the side.

“Then why offer?”

“The terror of an entire continent,” Kilian teasingly said, “and still some things about you are the same as when you were fresh out of Laure.”

I was still in too good a mood to get irritated, but she was headed in that direction.

“For old time’s sake,” Kilian said, “I’ll tell you one thing, Catherine.”

She paused, then looked away.

“You never looked at me the way you look at the Sahelian,” the redhead told me. “Do yourself a favour and own it.”

She raised her hand to touch my shoulder, but she must have seen something on my face and she aborted the gesture. With one last faint smile, she took her leave and left the cast of the fire’s light to vanish into the camp. I sat there, resting my cheek on the palm of my hand, and sighed.

“Eavesdropping?” I said.

A moment of silence, then a smooth gait on the dirt until she came to sit by my side. Close enough to touch, yet not touching. Years made into a sentence, that.

“You started it,” Akua replied.

I rolled my eye but did not argue. We were both had bad habits in that regard. The silence that lingered after was not tense, but neither was it easy. It felt like the moment before a blade was drawn. And in the end, it was not me who cleared the scabbard first.

“Will you?” she asked.

“Will I?” I replied.

Golden eyes found mine.

“Do yourself a favour,” Akua said.

My fingers clenched, then slowly unclenched. I did not answer.

“No,” Akua murmured. “I don’t think you will. There’s too much of who you are invested in holding that last redoubt.”

I did not look away.

“So you won’t,” Akua slowly said, “but neither will you stop me.”

Her hand cupped my cheek, tenderly, and she leaned forward. I closed my eye, felt her lips move against mine. It was soft but the softness kindled a hunger, and I would have bitten her lip and leaned in had I not held on to that last redoubt. But I did, she leaned back. Her breath was soft against my lips.

“I am not sure,” Akua whispered, “whether that was love or cruelty.”

My eye still closed, I felt her rise to her feet. She brushed her hand against my neck, my shoulder, and then suddenly the warmth of them was gone.

“Neither am I,” I admitted.

She was gone when I opened my eye.

I stayed there for a long time, sitting there in my silence.

Though it was late and the night was at its deepest, I did not crawl into my tent to sleep. Instead I rose and slipped past the sleeping bodies on the floor, past the people I loved most in the world, and headed deeper into the shadow. Past the last fires to be lit, the last watching eyes that a twist of Night ensured slid past me without seeing anything. I did not have a destination held firmly in my mind, instead trusting my feet to get me where I needed to be. One of the old Fairfax kings had once said that the evening before a battle was like an entire nation breathing in, and I felt the truth to the words. For all that the camp had gone still and silent, there was palpable sense of something in the air.

But we were still in the moment before the end began, and so there was room enough for one last conversation to be had.

I found her waiting in the shadow of a watchtower, leaning against the side as a slice of moonlight cut across her face. The Ranger had been beautiful once, and perhaps still was, but that beauty had been marred. She still held the burn scars of Summer flame on the side of her face, but also fresher ones. Still red and raw, three cuts: one across the nose and two down her cheeks. The parting gift of her last pupils, the children of Refuge that had risen against their terror and teacher. They’d left her broken on the floor of the Tower as goblinfire burned behind, her fate entirely in her own hands. We’d all known, deep down, that it would take more than that to kill her.

I limped forward, Mantle trailing behind me as the moonlight shone down on my hair, and the half-elf’s dark eyes flicked to me even through the veil I had yet to cast down. It was no longer needed, though, so with a flick of the wrist I abandoned the working.

“I’ve been expecting you, Hye Su,” I calmly said.

“I did not,” the hard-eyed woman said, “give you leave to use my name.”

I hummed, unmoved, and cocked my head to the side.

“ “But the Name you want me to use instead,” I said, “isn’t it feeling a little loose in your grasp, nowadays?”

I felt it then, the will to kill me. An intention so strong it felt like Creation would bend to it, just like the first time I’d met this monster when I’d been a girl who didn’t known better. I did now, though. And I was no longer that girl. I leaned forward, smiling, and pit my will against her own. For a moment it was as if two ships were colliding, but then in the heartbeat that followed there was a crack. And it was not me that’d given. Ranger drew back into herself before it could turn worse, face giving away nothing, but her body was not so silent. She was, I found with amusement, wary.

How long had it been since she’d come out the loser in a game like this?

“Better,” I mildly said. “Now make your offer. It’s why you came for, isn’t it?”

She pushed off the side of the watchtower, the slice of moonlight expanding to swallow half her face. How very unfair it was, I thought, that she was beautiful enough the cut on her cheek seemed more like a tattoo than a blemish.

“I want a trade, Warden,” Hye Su said. “An oath out of you.”

“And what manner of oath would it be?” I asked.

I already knew the answer, but it needed to be said.

“A duel,” she said. “You and me. Ten years from now.”

I thinly smiled.

“Am I to rejoice,” I asked, “that I have become worth hunting?”

Her face tightened with sudden, poisonous anger. It startled me.

“No,” Hye Sue coldly said. “Not that. Never that, for you. This isn’t Ranger business.”

Ah, I softly realized. It wasn’t the Named that had come tonight, the legend. It was the woman.

“You want to kill me,” I said.

“If you die now Calernia might break,” she said. “And if it’s just after the war, it’ll be more trouble than it’s worth. So I want an oath that, ten years from now, you will come to me for a duel to the death.”

I breathed out a laugh.

“Indrani didn’t think you’d take revenge,” I told her.

“He did it to himself as much as you did,” she said. “I know that. And that it’s not a good fate in the making, killing you. It’ll bring too much down on my head.”

“But you don’t care,” I slowly said.

I was, I would admit, fascinated by the cold flame I saw in the other woman’s eyes.

“But I don’t care,” Hye Sue repeated, the quiet of her voice a deep grief. “I loved him, Warden, in a way that can’t be replaced. That time won’t change. I loved him and you killed him. So in ten years, one of us will die.”

Looking at her, at the gaunt cast of her face, I believed it at last. That in her own strange and twisted way, Hye Su had loved Amadeus of the Green Stretch just as deeply as he’d loved her. Enough that she was breaking the rules that’d kept her alive through centuries of fighting Named and monsters, enough that she was willing to risk being hunted by entire kingdoms. This might just be, I realized, the first time I had ever liked the Ranger since first meeting her. I clenched my fingers, then unclenched them.

“You said this was a trade,” I reminded her. “Should I take this oath, what would you offer in exchange?”

She met my eye, unflinching.

“I know,” Hye Sue, “a secret way into Keter. Take the oath and I’ll show it to you.”

And there it was, the last piece that’d been needed before it all fell into place. Before we brought an end to this endless war. I stood before her, our silhouettes draped in moonlight, and after a long moment I offered my hand. She took it, fingers digging into my wrist, and we shook on it.

I gave her the oath and she gave me a way past the impassable.

Chapter 62: Finish

“There should be no second chances. To think your days on Creation as a test, as something that can be won or lost, is a mistake. The peculiar delusion to believe that you are alone and all others are rivals. No lone soul can bear the weight of the world: come Last Dusk, we will rise or fall as a whole. So do not be stinting in kindness, in offering chances without counting them. Come the end, we may find that saving one soul saved all the world.”

– King Edmund of Callow, the Inkhand

-my sword cleared the scabbard, rising to catch a glint of sunlight.

“Let us remind the Enemy,” I said, and then stilled.

More words were on the tip of my tongue, defiance and pride, but my vision was swimming and suddenly I felt like emptying my stomach all over the avenue. Something had just happened. I’d just been… Choppily moving around on Zombie’s back, I saw the dead gathering in bands down the paving stones that would lead us all the way to the inner wall. Nausea clogged up my throat and I retched drily, pawing at my sweaty face. Tears were trailing down my face, like I’d looked into the sun for too long, but when I turned I saw enough. My knights were going through the same thing, several of them vomiting on the floor while others had been thrown off by panicked horses. This isn’t what happened, I thought. My blood was pounding away at my temples.

“Akua?” I rasped out.

My eye went to her and found her bent over her necromantic horse, breathing panicked as she tried and fail to say still.

“Sorcery,” she got out. “Something…”

She used a word in Mthethwa I’d never head before, maybe from one of the northern dialects.

“I died.”

I shifted in my saddle again, feeling like a raft going down rapids as bile rose up my throat. It had been Brandon Talbot who spoke. His face was haggard.

“I remember dying,” the bearded knight continued. “Thrown off the edge, the way my skull broke when I landed.”

The Sisters were talking in the back of my mind, their voices like the scream of a migraine, and I couldn’t even make out what they were saying. It was fast and angry and worried. But I remembered it, just a bit. Charging up that avenue with the Broken Bells behind me, Praes coming to our aid. Storming the wall, setting foot in the Dead King’s last redoubt and then… I let out a hoarse scream, clutching my helm as warm nails were driven into my brain. The pain, Gods the pain. Someone laid their soft hand on me, whispering an incantation, but it was dim. Distant. The memories were not. I led us straight into a trap, I remembered with dread. There had been no way to know how many had died when Keter had turned into a lethal jigsaw puzzle, but I could hazard guesses.

Armies had been broken, mine worst of all.

“The Riddle-Maker did this,” I guessed, forehead burning with fever.

The last thing I remembered hearing was his challenge to the Dead King, though the precise words escaped me. Most the knights seemed all right by now – shaken, but no more than that – but I was still feeling shaky. Had I gotten it worse than most? Why did… no, I could wonder at that later. We had been sent back by an hour, maybe a little more, and now we knew that Keter itself was a death trap meant to shatter our armies. My eye turned to Akua, who looked a little green bit otherwise fine.

“I can’t feel the ritual getting started,” I said. “Can you? If he got sent back an hour as well, he should be striking immediately knowing we won’t fall for it twice.”

“A ritual on that scale cannot be done by snapping one’s fingers, Catherine,” the sorceress peevishly replied. “We saw the end, not the preparations. The first steps are likely being taken below our feet as we speak.”

Unless the Dead King hadn’t gotten sent back – or his memories sent back, or whatever the Hells this was. That would be too lucky, I grimly thought. I have to assume he went back as well. The only person who could tell me what this all was would be Kreios the Riddle-Maker himself, who was… actually where was he right now?

“Talbot, Akua,” I said. “Hold, do not charge.”

Both opened their mouths, but before they could ask me anything I’d spurred on Zombie and she took a few bounding steps before leaping into flight. Streaks of sorcery whizzed past us and arrows were fired, though they fell far short, as I the hippocorvid beat her wings hastily and circled ever higher. The smoke was thick up here and ash stuck to my drying sweat in clumps, but I looked with my fleshless eyes and saw where I needed to. The gate that the Procerans had taken not so long ago was full of fantassins and conscripts, but there was not a hint of the Gigantes I had glimpsed there before passing out.

“Are you not here yet?” I murmured.

Gods, I thought. I knew that, like teleportation, ‘time’ magic was theoretically possible. Not under the Trismegistan theory, sure, but what would a Titan care about that? The sheer amount of power it would need, though, was somewhere between mind-boggling and outright divine. I hadn’t thought even an ancient old monster like Kreios the Riddle-Maker would have that in him. Because we know fuck all about him in the first place, I thought, except that he’s to Gigantes what Sve Noc are to drow. Regardless, I had my answer: the Titanomachy was not here, had yet to arrive, and that meant in every way that mattered we were still fucked.

We couldn’t stop the Dead King’s ritual puppetry of his city and we had nothing prepared to take armies through the field of entropy magic that lay beyond the inner walls. Even if we made better time than our last swing at this, went in better prepared, we would lose. And I had my doubts we’d do better, now that the Dead King had no reason to hold back since his trap had already been revealed. He’d come for us with all he had. I cursed under my breath, knees guiding Zombie into a dive. She screeched, displeased she’d done all this flying without getting to kill anything, but obeyed. I was in no better mood. I’d put it all on the line and it had not been enough, so there was only one thing left to do.

Call the retreat.

We landed back with the Order of Broken Bells, which had formed into a wedge in my absence but obeyed the orders. Akua looked better, I thought after glancing her way. Almost back to normal. My knights were even better, except for a few whose faces were still sickly. Those who died, I guessed. Talbot saluted when turned to him, face grim.

“We pull back,” I told him. “We can’t take the inner city and if we can’t do that then we’re just throwing lives away.”

“It will be butchery getting out,” the grandmaster evenly said.

“I know,” I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “But it’ll be a lot worse than that if we stay.”

In his eyes I saw he did not agree, and I was not sure whether that was irritating me or making me proud. Maybe a little of both.

“Send riders to the commanders on the ground,” I ordered him. “We need to move quickly.”

“As you say, Your Majesty,” Brandon Talbot replied, fist over heart.

My gaze turned to Akua, who already had a cocked eyebrow.

“I’ll reach out to the flying fortresses,” she said. “Ask them to cover our retreat instead of our advance.”

“Everything they can,” I quietly said, eye moving to the dead gathering on the avenue. “This is going to get messy.”

I’d been taught an army was never so vulnerable as when it was retreating, and that’d been talking of some field or city. This was Keter.

It was going to get bad.

I charged twice with the Order of Broken Bells, to disrupt the dead before they could mass enough to overwhelm our position at the avenue. It was a brisk, shattering business that left skeletons in pieces after which we withdrew. Above us the flying fortresses were pulling back as well, but not before High Marshal Nim gave Keter her goodbyes. A trail of barrels fell in the wake of the retreating fortresses, smashing into the ground to a familiar sight: green flame. The Black Knight unloaded her stocks like a spendthrift, drowning the Crown of the Dead in death all around the Army of Callow’s dug in positions. The ogre was not willing to sacrifice the Legions to cover our retreat, but she was willing to do the next best thing.

Word was sent to the Levantines and the Procerans that we were beginning the retreat, though I had no doubt they were doing the same already, and my army closed ranks as it began to cede ground. We’d have to cross the same steel bridges that had brought us here under fire once more, which would be costly, but we’d survive taking a licking like that. The same could not be said of staying in the city. Besides, with the goblinfire surrounding our position we shouldn’t be too badly pressed. I sent the Order back, since knights would be of no use in narrow streets packed increasingly tight with our soldiers, and gave Grandmaster Talbot orders to expediate the first bridge crossings.

On my way back to the hill we’d bled so much to take, I found the Painted Knife’s band waiting for me. Roland still looked sick, I noticed, but the others were fine. More sensitive to power? Didn’t matter and I didn’t ask. They had news for me and that took precedence.

“All armies are retreating,” Kallia told me. “Just heard it from the Page, Warden. The Grey Legion is hammering at the Procerans and my people are on the verge of collapse.”

“Why is the Dominion folding?” I frowned.

They hadn’t been that badly off last time.

“I do not know,” the Painted Knife unhappily admitted. “Neither did the Page. All I can say is that there is a fighting retreat on all sides.”

“It’s the best we can hope for,” I grunted. “At least we-”

I didn’t even have time to tempt Fate, it took the lead. Before I could finish my sentence I felt the fabric of Creation begin to bend and scream, as atop the tower in the depths of the inner city a burning glare turned its attention to us.

“Demons,” I quietly said. “Fuck.”

The Dead King had decided to stop pulling punches, and it went downhill from there. One of the abominations bent the very floor of Keter, wiping away the goblinfire and turning it into a surreal sculpture as undead poured into the breach. To the east instead a two-legged creature without legs whose very silhouette hurt my eye to behold began to eat the green flames, finally answering the old question of whether goblinfire worked on demons. Only some of them, it seemed. What had been an orderly retreat went to shit in moments.

“Akua-”

“I won’t be enough,” she interrupted me. “We need diabolists, Catherine. We need the High Lords.”

She was right, and if the demons weren’t contained then it was more than just the Army of Callow that was at risk. They might sweep through right into the camp.

“Fuck,” I cursed again, and drew my sword. “Get them down here. On my authority.”

In some ways, what followed was worse than Maillac’s Boot. There we had picked our grounds, prepared and weighed the risks. Here it was madness on all sides, my soldiers never in the right place while the enemy struck from everywhere. I fought in the whirlwind of the melee, never staying in place, always going where the shield wall was collapsing or the monster had broken through. I emptied myself of Night, torching ranks of Binds and almost broke my arm dragging a soldier out of a collapsing house. Moments later I had to bring down another on top of my own legionaries as a swarm of ghouls overwhelmed them, biting the scream on the tip of my tongue.

The Praesi came, but there was no clean victory to be had here. One of the Old Mothers topped down, the enchantments that kept it aflight twisted by a demon of Corruption, and as I saw that great fortress topple behind enemy lines I knew every soul inside was dead. The High Lords and their retinues came down, joining the desperate fight, and sorcery lit up the dusty sky. Demons were bound, driven back, and at the heart of it all Akua led them sword in hand. A hand touched my shoulder and I near leapt out my skin, already halfway through a swing when I realized it was Roland. The Rogue Sorcerer was covered in soot, his boyish face drawn and tired.

“The Blade of Mercy’s dead,” he told me. “And the Skinchanger lost an arm. We were ambushed by the Prince of Bones and the Seelie.”

My grip tightened around my sword.

“Pull your band back,” I said. “Every Named corpse will be Revenant by tomorrow.”

“Kallia already gave the order,” Roland said. “The Blessed Artificer was wounded, but she’s still covering the retreat across the bridges. We need to get out now, Catherine.”

“I’m not leaving my soldiers behind,” I harshly said.

“Then lead them out of here quickly,” he replied. “The Procerans are mostly out of the city now. We’re about to have all the Scourges after us, not just two.”

That the Hawk had not shot at me or any of mine even once remained a private source of dread. If he hadn’t been after us, then who was it he’d been shooting at? I spat to the side, into a thick carpet of ash. Much as I disliked it, Roland was right: if we kept retreating with a measure of control, we’d get killed anyway. I was going to have to tell my soldiers to run, knowing they’d get shot in the back all the while. But it’ll be worse if we’re the last people in Keter, I thought. That’s suicide.

“I’ll give the orders,” I said. “Go tell Akua we need to get a move on.”

He nodded. I got hold of a captain, then worked my way up the chain to a tribune before I found no one higher. Everyone else was dead. My word was enough to get them moving, and it was exactly as brutal as I’d feared. The dead spilled forth uncontrollably with no shield wall to contain them, and as everyone made a run for the bridges panic began to spread. I made my way to the hill where I’d sent Roland and last seen Akua, but they were further ahead. Behind a half-collapsed house, arguing about something.

“I can still save-”

“Yourself,” the Rogue Sorcerer bit out. “Come on, we need to get-”

I saw the glint of the sun on metal, but neither of them did. I shouted in warning even as I pulled on Night, tossing it blindly, but the arrow went through the power like a knife through butter. Akua fell to her knees, a dark-feathered shaft having sprouted in her throat and gone through the sheet of mail.

No,” I shouted, throwing up an illusion to hide them.

Another arrow fell blindly, missing both as Akua clawed at her throat and gasped. Roland put his hand on the arrow and met her eyes. She nodded. I did not have the heart to look, only hearing a wet gurgle. I almost tripped on the stones, falling to my knees next to her as I ripped away the mail and laid a hand on her bloody skin. Her throat had been shredded, now a red mess. I stopped the bleeding with a pulse of Night, but I could not heal. She could, though. Tracing runes in the air, eyes fluttering, she began to close the skin of her own throat. Then I felt the illusion being ripped through. Roland threw out a shimmering shield as I helped Akua up, drawing her close.

She still couldn’t talk, she’d lost some vocal cords.

“We run,” I said, pulling on Night and throwing another illusion.

Roland suddenly twitched, reaching behind me, and his arm lit up with half a dozen shades of green light shaped like leaves. I ducked, but it would have been too late if he’d not stepped in: the arrow that should have gone through the back of my neck was instead caught in the leaves, punching through them and the mail below to cut the side of his arm.

“Let’s,” the Rogue Sorcerer fervently agreed.

We legged it. Behind us I saw a flicker of movement and tossed black flame at it without breaking stride, forcing the Seelie to duck away, and we ran for my army and the relative safety of the press of the crowd. Curses broke houses to our sides as we moved, the Mantle revealing she’d not been far behind, and I forced back a whimper of pain as I kept running despite my bad leg. Akua gently pushed off my arm, fine running on her own, and my stomach loosened when finally we reached my soldiers. They parted way for us some, even as everyone tried to hurry onto the bridges even as the ramparts in the distance shot at my crossing men.

Roland stumbled and I caught him, glaring at the man who’d just elbowed him, but that was when I noticed how pale he’d gone. When he dropped to his knees, he didn’t get back up. My stomach dropped and I laid a hand on his neck.

“Roland?” I asked. “What is-”

“Poison,” he rasped. “Must be.”

I found it a moment later and went still. I knew this poison, I’d seen it before. It had been in Hune’s blood after the Varlet struck her, and the moment it’d touched Night it had turned into acid and killed her instantly.

“Akua,” I shouted, turning around, “I need you to-”

She was already at my side, magic wreathing her hand yellow, but her face was somber. I got up, yelling for a priest, but there were none. They’d already crossed, we were with the last of the rearguard. Roland had gone even paler and his breath was slowing.

“No,” I begged, kneeling back down. “Please.”

He smiled at me, grasping my hand.

“Charlatans run out of tricks,” Roland whispered. “Nothing to it.”

“You won’t,” I said. “We’ll-”

I looked at Akua, but she wouldn’t meet my eye. The breath went out of me.

“I don’t regret it,” Roland told me. “I don’t. Get them all home, Catherine.”

For the first time in years, I let out a sob. He drew me close.

“Beaumarais,” he murmured into my ear. “Bury me in Beaumarais. There’s a girl…”

He trailed off. His breath was difficult.

“I will,” I swore, because what else could I do?

“We did good,” Roland whispered, eyes closing. “We did…”

He did not breathe in again. It was over, all because of that small cut on his wrist. A single moment of inattention on my part, that was all it’d taken. I crossed the bridge in silence carrying his body on my back, Akua trailing behind me, swatting stones out of the sky. I went all the way through and up the hill, back to the camp and the tent I had come from. There I found my staff, stuck in the ground, and ripped it free. Eye closed, I sagged against it.

The battle was over.

It would take hours before we could count how many soldiers had died – at least twenty-five thousand, by the most conservative of reckonings – but some casualties were easier to count. Names began to filter in with the reports. Prince Rodrigo Trastanes of Orense had died in battle against the Grey Legion, keeping them off routing conscripts long enough to prevent collapse of the Proceran flank. The captain of Hakram’s retinue, Dag Clawtoe of the Howling Wolves, took the Hawk’s killing arrow for his Warlord. High Lady Takisha of Kahtan blew her own brains out rather than be taken by a demon of Corruption and High Lord Jaheem of Okoro incinerated himself along with three city blocks when he found himself surrounded.

Not all deaths were worth a story. The princess of Creusens was trampled to death by her own panicked horse, Red Ella – Aquiline’s second – was pushed off the wall and broke her neck. The senior legate of the Fourth Army was torched by mage fire from his own troops, which had misheard the order of their captain in the mayhem. War was one third heroism, one third horror and tone third the simple cruelty of luck.

Some losses were more keenly felt than others. Levant lost its steadiest hand when Careful Yannu was taken by the Prince of Bones, leaving it in disarray as it retreated from its failed assault. The First Army lost General Zola to a ritual bombardment that’d gotten past Hierophant and two layers of wards. It’d been a nasty curse and an even nastier way to die, taking half of the First’s senior staff with her. We were so lacking in officers there was talk that Aisha might need to take command, as one of the few old hands left.

When it came to Named, the amount of death was staggering. The Scourges had focused on them rather than racking up crowned scalps and it showed. We’d lost the Royal Conjurer, the Marauder, the Swaggering Duellist, the Balladeer, the Forlorn Paladin, the Blade of Mercy, the Anchorite, the Bloody Sword and the Pilfering Dicer. The Skinchanger had lost an arm, the Myrmidon a leg and the Stone Carver had been struck blind. I’d known few of them in any depth, so my grief was kept back for the one I had counted a friend.

But I swallowed my grief, got myself patched up and changed my clothes before downing as much herbal painkiller as I could. My day wasn’t done: the Gigantes were on their way, and that meant there were talks to be had before I could collapse into a bed and weep.

It felt more like a town assembly than a war council.

My preference for fewer people in the room was forcefully set aside by circumstance. Twice over, given that not only did we need a crowd’s worth of people but we did not have a room that could fit the Gigantes. The gathering took place outside in an abandoned drilling field, the fate of Calernia to be determined over beaten earth besides training dummies. Chairs were dragged in, wards layered one after another by half a dozen different mages under Hierophant’s watching eye and then we sent for everyone that wasn’t already there.

Every Proceran prince left had dragged their hides there, led by First Prince Rozala Malanza and the unofficial second most powerful man left in the Principate: Otto Redcrown. Frederic sat there wearing a pristine doublet in his family colours, with him a few familiar faces. Beatrice of Hainaut and Arsene of Bayeux. Others I did not know as well: the rulers of Aisne, Orne, Arans, Lyonis and Segovia. The absence of Procer’s southeast boded badly for Rozala’s later reign, the four principalities that had effectively abandoned the rest of Calernia forming a territory as large as Levant and significantly richer. Adding to the crowd were the most prominent fantassins captains, most of them having fallen behind the most powerful among them: Captain-General Catalina Ferreiro of the Liga Bandera, a handsome scarred woman I’d fought with at the Battle of Hainaut.

In the back of their gathering, still a princess in name, Cordelia Hasenbach sat. Her face was calm, but those blue eyes troubled. They had good reason to be, I conceded with a grimace.

The League of Free Cities gathered around Empress Basilia of Aenia like a pack of birds huddling for warmth, save for the exhausted-looking general from Bellerophon and the aggressively unremarkable minder stand behind him. Hopefully the kanenas wouldn’t execute the woman, things were tense enough as it was. First Magister – for life – Zoe Ixioni and Princess Zenobia Vasilakis, Basilia’s vassals and closest allies, sat to her sides. The philosopher-priest from Atalante, a short man with a wildly unkempt beard, instead stuck closer to Secretary Nestor and the newly-elected Exarch of Penthes, a nervously skinny young man by the name of Leontios Notaris. They were in the finest mood here, however grim that height: their victory out on the Ossuary with dwarven support had been a crushing one.

The Levantines had brought captains as well as Blood, but that’d not been entirely the choice of the last remaining lords and lady of Levant. Lord Yannu Marave had no issue and his designated successor was in Levant. The most influential captains of Alava had come in the stead of their fallen lord, forcing the lordlings and Lord Moro of the Brigand’s Blood to follow suit. They were a brawny and bearded lot, fierce of appearance and decked in colourful paint, but Careful Yannu’s empty seat seemed to swallow up space at the heart of them. Even Aquiline and Razin seemed a little lost at his absence: they’d been foes in some way, but Yannu Marave had been the Dominion’s leading commander for most of the war against Keter.

The Confederation of Praes, artfully arranged around Malicia, had brought not only the Black Knight in her function as High Marshal but also Lady Nahiza Serrif as the ranking mage and the surviving gaggle of High Lords. Leering old Abreha Mirembe had it made it, as had Sargon Sahelian and venomous old Whither, but the High Lady of Kahtan and the High Lord of Okoro left empty seats. The High Lord of Nok was wounded but alive and had sent his daughter to sit in his stead. Their like was still glittering with gold and jewels, but the rest of the Praesi were anything but. The Warlord had brought with him the chiefs of his most powerful clans, which Hakram was turning into an informal council. Oghuz the Lame of the Red Shields and Troke Snaketooth for the Blackspears, Hegvor Allspeak for the Split Trees and Arban Twelve-Fingers for the Graven Bones.

My own lot were not so numerous in comparison, though we did have some famous names among us. Marshal Juniper and all my generals were the core of it, with Masego and Akua requested to be present to lend their knowledge. Vivienne was here as my successor, Indrani because she was certain to face the Hawk and though Hanno and Ishaq could not really be considered of ‘mine’ they sat with me as befitting captains of Above and Below subordinate to my office of Warden. I stood in the back of my delegation, draped in the Mantle of Woe and with two great crows on my shoulders.

The Firstborn did not send anyone but General Rumena and my two scribes. They did not need to: as the defence force of the camps, they had yet to try the walls. Their losses had been the lightest of us all, though that would not last. We had been saving them up for the last push, and that was fast approaching. The dwarves had earned the right to have a seat at the table with the foodstuffs promised, then earned it again by fighting alongside the League on the field today. Yet they preferred keeping their distance, sending only the Herald of the Deeps and Seeker Balasi flanked by a pair of armoured guards in heavy plate that covered their faces.

The last, but not the least, was a single man. Kreios the Riddle-Maker was taller than any of the Gigantes I had seen by a dozen feet, his thick skin a pale brown and his hair long. Unlike what I had seen of his kind, he had long brown locks but shaved his face – though not recently, by the looks of the stubble. His eyes were what drew the attention, large pools of a grey so pale it almost seemed white. They were steady and unblinking, as if there was nothing in the world that could possibly concern him. Given that the Titan sat higher than some towers, even seated with folded legs, I could believe it. Though he did not move and had not spoken since the Witch of the Woods came to stand at his side, it still felt like he was looming over us all.

First Prince Rozala rose to her feet, not even the generous cut of her tunic enough to hide how close to giving birth she was getting.

“I will begin by giving formal thanks to the Titanomachy,” Rozala Malanza said, and then to the surprise of some offered a bow to Kreios. “If you had not lent your aid, we might not now be alive to thank you.”

Some of her countrymen looked aghast at a First Prince bowing to a giant, but others were openly approving. The Titan studied her, then bowed his head back.

“Worthy causes ever find friends,” the old gold rumbled.

He didn’t mean to sound so deep, I decided, to have the sound of his voice resonating in our bones. But then did humans mean to breathe strong enough to move flies?

“An honourable sentiment,” Rozala replied, sounding sincere. “In its spirit, may I ask what manner of spell was used to move us through time?”

Kreios glanced at the Witch, whose face of painted stone looked sternly at us all.

“It was not movement in the sense you mean,” the Witch of the Woods told us. “A moment was severed from the flow and, once separate, made to begin anew. It was then joined anew to the flow.”

Hierophant leaned forward.

“You mean that we lost an hour compared to the rest of Creation,” Masego said. “Instead we repeated the same hour twice.”

Kreios watched him.

“You have good eyes, Cutter,” the god praised, “and witness much.”

“There is so much to see,” Hierophant smiled.

They might have gotten started on the magic talk if left to it, I figured, but we couldn’t spare the time for that.

“Can you do it again?” I bluntly asked.

It was the Witch that answered me.

“Not without erasing most of the Kingdom of the Dead,” Antigone said. “It will be centuries before severing causality here should be considered again.”

Mhm, I’d figured it would be something like that. Power that useful never came without a price. An hour for a few centuries of silence, huh. Creation was more fragile than I’d thought, or perhaps more hard-handed in erasing mistakes. I’d moved the conversation back to practicalities, which had been my objective, so I didn’t step into it again. Aquiline was the one who first put the cards on the table.

“Though we have taken great casualties,” the Lady of Tartessos said, “I believe we all know the truth: if we do not strike tomorrow, we will lose this war.”

There were grim nods of agreement, and then the inevitable hesitation. People wanted to wait longer, to let the men rest and finish healing the wounded. To make new plans to invest the city. It was Hakram that put an end to it.

“We learned the lay of the Dead King’s defences today,” the Warlord growled, “at great cost to many of us. If we wait, we throw those lives away: every hour that passes, the dead build new dangers to ruin us. We cannot wait.”

There was a hear, hear from Otto Reitzenberg that had a few Procerans cheering, Levantines loudly voicing their own approval. Eyes went to me, but I kept silent. It was Juniper who spoke for the Army of Callow, voicing her agreement.

“We can’t wait,” the Hellhound grunted, “but let’s not kid ourselves about our chances either. If we don’t have anything for the shifting city and that death trap in the inner city, then there’s no point in attacking.”

There the dwarves stirred.

“I believe I know where the ritual lies,” the Herald of the Deeps said. “Though I cannot stop it from beginning, I would lead my soldiers underground to end it.”

There were some nods of appreciation.

“Keter’s Due will begin to be fed into the secondary arrays long before the city begins to move,” Akua said. “We need a way to deal with it first.”

“The leading issue is the entropy trap,” Chancellor Alaya agreed. “We cannot take the Hellgate and reach the Dead King without being able to push past the second wall.”

“I will silence the power,” Kreios the Riddle-Maker stated. “When soldiers reach this wall, I will go with them and keep this trap dormant.”

There was a moment of silence, none quite daring to speak up after that. I cleared my throat.

“Then we have the bare bones of a plan,” I said. “We will assault the city again, with Lord Kreios allowing us to push past the inner wall while the Herald and his army strike at the Dead King’s ritual.”

“That still means we have to take Keter again,” Lord Moro of the Brigand’s Blood grimaced. “The Enemy will await us, and there are no bridges left. We will depend entirely on sorcery to cross.”

“No,” General Rumena mildly said. “This is to be the last battle, yes? Then the Firstborn will lead the charge. All can follow in our wake.”

It was enough of a boast that it had to explain after, but fewer questions were asked than one might assume. It had not gone unnoticed that I had not contradicted the drow general. An hour and change passed as tactics were argued and then the attribution of Named. The greatest change was that there would be no army sent out to do battle on the Ossuary: there would be no other chance of winning after this. We were all in, do or die. Remaining in my seat, I closed my eye and sunk into my Name. Let it wash over me, hands reaching into the void as I exerted my will to See. And I found it, exactly what I was looking for. It was right under my hand, almost eager to be taken up.

The last stories were falling into place, huh. Even Fate believed it would all come down to tomorrow.

When I opened my eye I found the Riddle-Maker staring at me. Hierophant had, Gods bless his soul, stepped between us in a gesture that could be taken as protective. The Titan wished me no harm, though. I knew exactly what it was that’d drawn his attention.

“You have stolen an eye from the Intercessor,” the Titan said.

Silence fell, all other conversation dying. I reached for my pipe and took it in hand, stuffing it full of wakeleaf with well-practiced movements. I passed my palm over the mouth and pulled on a shard of Night, lighting it, and pulled deep. I let the burn linger in my lungs, the acrid pleasure of it, and spewed out the pale smoke. I was even nice enough not to do it on the back of Juniper’s neck, merciful queen that I was.

“Taken,” I corrected in a drawl. “It’s been a habit since I was a girl, I’ll confess.”

The old god seemed unmoved by my words.

“And what did you find?” he asked.

“We’re about to have a visitor,” I smiled.

I wasn’t tied into the wards, but I knew the mages that were: and each and every one of them shivered. A heartbeat later a silhouette stood in the middle of the circle. Tall and slim and androgynous, they had a spellwood sword at their hip and a long green cloak. Smoothly the unsheathed the sword, and though half the crowd reached for weapons I did not move. I pulled at my pipe, eye unblinking as the Emerald Sword plunged it into the earth. It met my gaze, face expressionless.

“We acknowledge the debt of the prince and the tower, Warden,” the elf said. “We will honour the bargain struck.”

I spat out smoke, making them wrinkle their nose, and inclined my head in a nod. They had better. I’d opened them a gate into Twilight from the room in the Tower they’d been stuck in, surrounded by goblinfire on all sides, at a price. When the time came for the Dead King to be brought at an end, the Emerald Swords would lend their swords to the cause. It’d taken me long enough to get them to acknowledge I had a right to be bargained with that I had gotten late to the bottom of the Tower and the tragedies it had in store for me, but it had been worth it. I had seen the might of the Emerald Swords, in Ater.

They would make a difference.

“I expected no less,” I replied.

They didn’t bother to answer me, or even address anyone else here. In a blink of an eye they were gone, the only proof they’d ever been there the dozen blades that’d been pulled and the length of spellwood that had been thrust into the ground. Eyes were still on me, but all I offered was a friendly smile. Always one more trick, that was the way. And I wasn’t even finished pulling on that particular thread. I rose to my feet, then stretched and cracked my bones.

“I believe this war council can come at an end,” I said.

“Do you have somewhere else to be, Your Excellency?” Ishaq drily asked.

“I’m going to start a cooking fire and find a stiff drink,” I frankly replied, then cast a look at the rest of them.

Thoughtful looks, some amused ones and a few offended.

“Tomorrow’s our wager with Fate,” I said. “Make sure you’re ready to face it.”

As for me, I knew exactly who I wanted to spend my last few hours before the plunge with.

Disinter

“You don’t want to be the best sword on Calernia, kids. That’s the one everyone’s always trying to kill. No, if you want to make a career of this aim to be the fifth finest sword – high enough they pay you well, low enough no one would really gain by offing you. Maybe it’s not the dream, kids, but unlike the dream it’s a living.”

– Transcribed lecture of the duellist Saint Armand the Old to the School of Swallows

The first rule about going into the Brocelian Forest was to trust no one and Ishaq was no fool. Before it all began, he met a man and gave him a ring.

“And yours?” the man said, sliding it down his finger.

“Here,” Ishaq said, before doing the same.

In truth, though, it had begun three months earlier when Ishaq went to the Sudden Death to sell the innkeep bundles of firewood. Old Dina bought them at higher a price than most of the inns on the outskirts of Tartessos wood, a concession to their years of knowing each other. She was, she said, willing to pay more for a reliable man. As was his habit, Ishaq took her up on the offer to sit in the common room with an ale afterwards. He’d learned that pricking his ear as he sipped his drink could yield coin for a halfway clever man, which he liked to think he was. Like most cheap inns, the Sudden Death was thick with would-be Brocelian bands and all of them needed something. Sometimes it was even a good axe hand they were looking for, something he was willing to provide for a cut of the goods.

That night, though, he found himself staring at a sad drunk instead.

A woman, older than him by a decade and deep enough into a bottle of liquor she no longer noticed that she spat out spittle as she talked – though others did and gave her a wide berth. It was the colours painted on her cheek that first drew his eye, swirls of blue and brown with a single stroke cutting through. He knew that paint, had been told of it by his late and unlamented father: it belonged to the Spear’s Blood. The woman was far from home, since their line was said to be sworn to the Champion’s Blood in faraway Alava. Ishaq finished his ale, shelled out coppers to order another two and sat across the sad drunk.

“Who the fuck ‘re you?” she belligerently said, staring down her crooked nose.

“The man who just bought you a drink,” Ishaq said, pushing the ale her way.

He’d just made a friend, at least until the drink ran out. Samira of the Fearless Spear’s Blood was all too eager to spill out her life so long as her cup was full, telling him of her woes. Her uncle, the head of her Blood, had sent her on the road.

“Sent all of us out,” Samira sneered. “Even his kids and grandkids. All of us on the road, because he thinks he’s going to get a Bestowed out of it.”

The Spear’s Blood was a laughingstock, having only ever raised two Bestowed since the founding of Levant, and so Esmail of the Spear’s Blood was resorting to drastic measures to make another. A widower, he had wed a beautiful but wicked woman and allowed her to mistreat his children but lost patience when the tale of their first Fearless Spear did not come to life again. Uncle Esmail, Samira told him, had then decided to send his kin into deathly peril until glory ensued. It seemed a waste of time and coppers to indulge her talk – Samira did give him the eye after a while, but Ishaq had a lover already and the drunk stank to the Dark and back – but there was something to this that’d drawn his eye so he kept the ale pouring. Altogether too much drink later, he finally wheedled out of her why she had gone to Tartessos of all places.

“Sure, I got some old story about a treasure deep in the Brocelian but how am I supposed to get it?” Samira mourned. “No band will take me.”

Because taking on a drunk in the forest is suicide, Ishaq thought, but instead of showing his thought he instead smiled at Samira through his beard.

“My friend,” Ishaq said, leaning closer, “I believe we can help each other.”

Zaray fiddled with the bronze bracelets on her wrist, which told him she was nervous even though her face might as well have been carved out of stone. The dark-haired beauty wore a green short-sleeved tunic that showed off her muscled arms, though in concession to the threat of the people they were to meet she had brought her hooked sword. Ishaq tended to find the tell endearing, but it was obvious enough he would prefer his lover settled before the others arrived.

“You have concerns,” he said, tone even.

She grimaced at him.

“Several of them will be veterans,” Zaray said. “They will know you are not one of them.”

It was his turn to grimace. It was true that Ishaq could not truly be called an adventurer, for it was not venturing into the Brocelian that kept a roof over his head but woodcutting. He had gone out with bands for kills or treasure, but it was not the occupation of all his days.

“It is in hand,” Ishaq assured her.

She touched his arm fondly, but did not seem reassured.

“Maram has led bands before and has a good reputation,” Zaray told him. “I worry that he might try to become captain of this band in your stead.”

He likely would, Ishaq knew, but his good reputation had brought in some of the others so it had been worth the risk.

“I tell you,” Ishaq said, returning the gesture, “it is in hand.”

Zaray still seemed unconvinced, but she stopped toying with her bracelets. His lover was an adventurer, a veteran of bands skilled in the use of hooked sword and spear, and like most of her trade she tended to underestimate those who did not dedicate their life to expeditions. It was the first time he had been on the wrong end of the that doubt in their year together, though, and Ishaq found he misliked it. Before he could linger on the thought, however, the others began to arrive. There would be eight of them. He and Zaray, and of course Samira of the Spear’s Blood. These were certain. After that, Ishaq had recruited by need.

First came Maram Brightblade, an adventurer of good repute known for his use of the sword and axe. His enchanted blade had earned the sobriquet He was a darkly handsome man with a scar on his cheek to whom smiles came easy and boasts even easier. He had been needed so that Ishaq could talk some of the others into the venture. As a woodsman they had a one-handed man of middle age called Rasul, a former slayer who knew paths deep into the woods. For magic they had the ragged young woman Thana the Limper, a binder washout from Malaga, and for… particular needs they had a couple. Those two were the last to arrive, ferret-faced Faris in his dark robes immediately eclipsed by his gorgeous wife Alisanne – fair of hair and blue of eye.

A round of drinks was had and bread broken, but as soon as plates were clear the challenge Ishaq had expected came.

“I’ve never head of you as a captain,” Thana the Limper bluntly said. “And if this is as great an artefact as Samira’s said, this should not be led by a greenhorn.”

Samira, though she had relied on him to arrange all this, spoke not a word. As a rule, he had found she was about as loyal as she was sober. That was noticed, particularly by Maram and Faris.

“You were invited,” Ishaq replied equally as bluntly, “but you are not needed. If you have objections, the door is behind you.”

Thana snorted, rising to her feet to call what she obviously thought to be a bluff. She did not find the support she might have expected, though. Rasul laid his wrist stump on the table and sneered at her.

“Keep moving, girl,” he said, “or shut the fuck up.”

Embarrassed, the young failed binder stepped away out of pride before admitting to herself that no one seemed inclined to follow. She bent her pride and sat back down, looking at everywhere but Ishaq. Rasul’s word counted for much, at the moment: he was an experienced woodsman and would be difficult to replace.

“We gather tomorrow at dawn,” Ishaq told them. “Be punctual or you will be left behind.”

There was some idle talk, but no second round of drinks was ordered and they band broke up. Thana was the first to leave. After Ishaq waved away Zaray, telling her to leave ahead of him as he finished his drink, she returned to the room. The mage stood before him, then cocked an eyebrow silently. Grinning, Ishaq flipped her a silver and she snatched it out of the air.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Thana the Limper grinned back.

Ishaq might not have won a fight with Maram when it came to leadership, as his lover had worried. So he’d paid for another, which he could.

The Brocelian Forest was beautiful, at least until it got you killed. Within an hour of stepping past the first tree, Ishaq’s band had been twice attacked by barrow wolves and once by a snake king. Maram Brightblade unsheathed that pretty sword of his for the latter fight, slashing at the knot of furious snakes and after a flash of light carving a burning wound through the creature’s heart without having ever touched it. He fell in at Ishaq’s side after even as Zaray took the lead, spear in hand.

“We are making good pace,” Maram idly said, sheathing the blade.

“So we are,” Ishaq idly replied, hand on the handle of his axe.

The handsome killer smiled at him, which pulled appealingly at his scarred cheek.

“I get the impression,” Maram said, “that you might be wary of me, Ishaq.”

“You’re a dangerous man, Maram,” Ishaq smiled. “Why would I not be?”

“Flatterer,” the other warrior chuckled. “But there is nothing to be wary of. You are leading well, though I’ll confess curiosity.”

“About?”

“I know of Faris,” Maram admitted. “He is said to have many artefacts.”

Ishaq inclined his head to the side, inviting the clean-shaven man to continue.

“But why bring in his wife?” Maram asked. “She gets a cut, same as the rest of us, but I do not see her bearing a weapon.”

“He doesn’t join bands without her,” Ishaq replied.

The other man hummed, seemingly unconvinced even though that was the truth. They made small talk for a while more until Maram drifted away, Ishaq recognizing the conversation for what it was: the first battle line being drawn. All of them were to have equal shares of the coin when the artefact was brought back and sold to the Lord of Tartessos, but as often the way with bands of strangers already those part of it were looking to fill their pockets a little more. And what better, simpler way than to cut through a few of the people owed a cut? The first rule of going into the Brocelian was to trust no one. Rasul led them near a river which they followed until noon, when they paused to eat and drink.

Samira dropped, sweating and exhausted, and he had to ask Zaray to make sure she’d be able to march when their break ended. As he sated himself with water, ferret-faced Faris approached in his now sweaty dark robes. The other man, older and thin, wore gaudy makeshift jewelry whose centerpiece was broken stones. Shards of wardstones, Ishaq had guessed.

“The Spear’s Blood will slow us down,” Faris quietly said. “It isn’t water she’s been sneaking sips of all day.”

“Only she knows the story and the map,” Ishaq mildly replied.

“Knowledge is never as safe as one thinks,” Faris nastily smiled. “Should you give me leave, I have a little box that will-”

“I do not give you leave,” Ishaq said.

The other man was taken aback, like it was unthinkable they should not plot to murder Samira after ripping anything of use out of her memories.

“Another might,” Faris warned.

Ishaq leaned forward, hand coming to rest on handle of his axe.

“Are you sure,” he asked, “that you want to play this game?”

Faris swallowed.

“I meant nothing by it,” the ferret-faced man hastily said.

Ishaq only smiled and Faris could not leave quickly enough. In his wake, his beautiful wife – whose practical leather tunic somehow seemed to be pretty as a tailored dress – arrived, offering a smile.

“You refused him,” Alisanne smiled. “I hoped you might. I’m glad that you are the man I thought-”

Ishaq raised a finger and her words halted.

“No,” he said.

She blinked, those big blue eyes betraying confusion.

“Pardon?”

“No,” Ishaq repeated. “We won’t be playing this game either. Walk way.”

She looked more than a little offended, but their conversation had drawn eyes and she seemed disinclined to make a scene. She flounced away, and though Ishaq’s gaze remained on her it was not to dip down at her swaying hips. Calmly, he wondered whether he should kill her now. She hadn’t done enough to earn it, he knew, but by the time she had she’d be difficult to get to. Reluctantly, he had to admit that he’d be turned against should he strike and abandon the thought. He tore his eyes away, finding Zaray wiping her sleeve free of Samira’s vomit as she shot him a dark glance. The nod he gave her was apologetic, but no more than that.

He could not show weakness, not in front of this pack of wolves.

Their journey was to take nine days to get there and another nine to return. Ishaq had never been so deep into the Brocelian before, but he knew the greatest of treasures were even further. The four of the Thirteen Cities that had been in what was now the Brocelian Forest were deep within the perilous land, their remains the death of nearly all who beheld those ancient walls. Gigantes had dwelled in those places along with men and the shadow of their might still lingered, less than fond of looters. Their own journey was to a lesser shrine, not as dangerous, but then the journey itself was to walk with death. And yet, Ishaq found that he was not disturbed.

Not when a flock wyverns pursued them for half a day, letting up only when Thara faked their deaths with an illusion. Not when a flicker-beast nearly killed Faris, ripping through some sort of yellow mist to almost close its mandibles around his neck until Alisanne stabbed it with a slender knife, or even when a large field of mushrooms turned into a pack of gibbering small creatures whose bite Maram told them was certain death. It made men rot from the inside, Brightblade told them as they fled east and crossed water to lose the relentless little shits. Ishaq had expected to have to master fear, but there was little of that. It felt more like a chore, like the labour of cutting wood. Over the three days it took them to get to the marker, Faris took to approaching him at meals.

“Are you sure we can trust Rasul?” the weasel-faced man asked.

When Ishaq laughed him off, he tried the same trick about Maram instead. The artefact-wielder went around their camp trying the same trick. Zaray, in their shared tent on the third night, lay her head on his chest and whispered a confession.

“He has a point about Samira,” she said. “She is slowing us down, and to be slow in the Brocelian is to be dead.”

“I would rather the knowledge be in Samira’s head,” Ishaq replied, “than in Faris’ hands.”

“We might not have a choice,” Zaray murmured. “I’ve seen him talking with Maram when they think no one else is looking.”

“We still need him,” the bearded man replied.

“Who?”

Ishaq did not say, and she did not ask again.

On the fourth day they reached the marker, and as they stood over the stele of stone covered in writings none of them knew Faris swaggered forward.

“As agreed,” the weasel pompously said, “you may now have my services.”

He put on a broken bit of glass set in a leather strap over his eye, then pawed at the writing and hummed as he brought out a bronze table. There was a bend in the middle of the second artefact, and Faris then produced two little pointed stones – one white and one black – that he carefully pressed against specific glyphs on the stele before putting them in the bronze bend. When they began to move and Faris grinned, Ishaq let out a noise of understanding. It was a compass. Maram seemed impressed, leaning over the other man’s shoulder.

“So now you use it to get us to the second marker?” Brightblade asked.

“Of course,” Faris said. “Child’s play, for a man of my talents. Our pet binder will have to earn her keep there, but until then-”

The movement was so smooth, so easy, that Ishaq did not realized what was happening before Faris’ throat was open and the man was gurgling on his knees. Maram lightly took the compass from him, and pointed his blade as Alisanne – who’d moved even faster, silvery knife in hand and halfway to the adventurer’s throat.

“Will we have a problem, Alisanne?” Maram Brightblade asked with a smile.

Blue eyes moved to Faris, who breathed his last and slumped headfirst into the grass. Red spread around him.

“I was sold into marriage,” beautiful Alisanne finally said. “I will survive – and I can use his artefacts.”

“Anyone can,” Maram countered. “He was not a mage, I made well sure of that.”

“You also killed one of our band,” Ishaq coldly said.

The handsome killer offered him an insolent smile.

“Is there anyone here the bastard did not approach to arrange a betrayal of the others?” Maram asked.

The answering silence was telling. Ishaq’s jaw tightened. If it came to a challenge now-

“I do not claim captaincy of our band, Ishaq,” Maram easily said. “I simply ended a threat before it could be turned on us.”

He did not like it, but a look around told him he would not win if he pushed the matter. Faris had made no friends and several enemies.

“His artefacts go to Alisanne, as his widow,” Ishaq said. “Save for the compass. I will handle it.”

Maram cast a look around of his own, then offered that damned smile again.

“As you say,” the killer conceded.

They left before the body was cool. Afterwards, Rasul came to his side.

“He is trying to take captaincy,” the woodsman bluntly said.

Ishaq hummed. That was not, in truth, his read of the situation. Maram wanted coin and he wanted a voice, but to lead? No, Ishaq did not believe he was after that. The man wanted to his second, to have a voice without the responsibilities. He wanted another thing as well, Ishaq was fairly sure, but that was a different sort of want.

“I know,” he lied. “It will be handled.”

Rasul nodded once, satisfied, and to the second marker they went. Faris’ compass served as well as the man himself would have.

It went wrong an hour before they got to the second marker. Two days of gruelling journey had gotten them there, but in avoiding a nest of hunter-wasps they crossed into the hunting grounds of a manticore. Several of them had fought the like before, but halfway through the fight Rasul took a swipe to the face and was sent tumbling into the brush. Without his spear to keep the manticore grounded it flew up, snapping her Thana in its jaws as it fled deeper into the woods. The failed binder screamed twice, but then where was harsh crack and she screamed no more. Ishaq’s eyes were not on her, though, when it all ended. They were on Rasul, who should not have been struck by that swipe.

Ah, Ishaq thought, eyes moving to another. So that’s how it is. He went though his pack and found the packets of salt from the Titan’s Pond. There should be enough.

“What now?” Ziray asked. “Thana was to unleash the second marker for us. Is the hunt lost?”

“There might be another way,” Alisanne told them. “But it would require the breaking of an artefact.”

Her eyes moved to the compass in Ishaq’s hands. The eyes of the others were on him, expectant.

“Whatever gets us there,” he agreeably replied.

When they got to the second stele, Alisanne ended up breaking three artefacts before the glyphs lit up – to her visible irritation. She then cut herself with a shard of bronze, laid it against a glyph and turned to them with a smile.

“So long as we are headed the way of the shrine, it will pull slightly at my fingers,” Alisanne told them with an angelic smile. “The journey continues.”

They made it to the ninth day. They were close now, all could feel it in their bones. And the urgency manifested itself in many ways, when camp was made and they retreated for the night. Rasul and Alisanne both disappeared, though a turn of the wind carrying noise made it clear what the pair was up to. Zaray glared in the direction, to Ishaq’s cocked eyebrow.

“Our two guides in bed?” she said. “Bad for us, lover.”

She went to bed early, in a dark mood. Samira was already snoring, exhausted by her drink as much as the day’s march, and so Ishaq went to sit with Maram Brightblade. The man was polishing his enchanted sword, sitting in a corner with his back to a stone.

“I would have thought you inclined to follow our friend Rasul’s lead in recreation,” Maram lightly said.

“Who says I’m not?” Ishq said, leaning back against the stone.

“Your lover went to bed scowling,” the handsome killer snorted. “If you can turn that around, I will offer a bow.”

“Wasn’t Zaray I was speaking of,” Ishaq idly said, meeting the other man’s eyes.

Maram stilled.

“Your looks are subtle,” he said, “but not that subtle.”

The other man slowly relaxed, then smiled than insolent smile again.

“It is the beard,” Maram confessed. “I have a weakness.”

“Then indulge yourself,” Ishaq smiled, and turned to straddle the other.

They did.

The shrine was broken when they got there.

It had been a circle of stones atop a hill once, but half were collapsed and the altar at the heart of the circle lay shattered. They went around, careful not to touch the stones, and found only grass and rock. Nothing of value.

“The story says it is here,” Samira of the Spear’s Blood whined. “It does, I swear.”

Angry eyes were turned on her, but Ishaq was not one of them. He had figured it out already, and suspected others had. They were keeping silent for the same reason as he was: this was about to end. He dropped his bag on the grass and, as Zaray began to argue with Samira, used the distraction to take out the satchel of salt and slide it into his pocket.

“Two of us died getting here,” Rasul growled. “If there is no treasure-”

“I’ll not be talked down to by a cripple,” Samira sneered, reaching for her spear, and there was no taking that back.

The fight was quick, and its end unexpected. Rasul was a skilled fighter, for all that he had lost a hand, but drunk and stinking Samira still slapped him down as if disciplining a dog. The Spear’s Blood expected excellence of its own. It did not save her from Zaray ramming her sword through the other woman’s back. Ishaq breathed out, grieved for a moment, but all things passed. His was not a land for sentiment. So he stepped forwards as his lover ripped out her sword, eyes still wild, and took Samira’s corpse by its greasy hair. He threw it on the broken altar, blood dripping all over the stone, and a heartbeat later all of them felt a shiver in the air.

The altar was whole again, a blood-red gem resting on it surrounded by leaves a gold. Further back, at the edge of the raised stones, a pit had opened. Ishaq glimpsed bone as the bottom and hummed. As he’d suspected, the place had been built over a barrow.

“A sanguine stone,” Maram breathed out. “The drunk wasn’t lying.”

“Enough for all of us to live comfortably,” Ishaq agreed, smiling as he went around the altar.

He pushed off Samira’s corpse, leaving a bloody trail on the stone, and as he did discreetly palmed the salt satchel. Hidden by the altar, he began to trace a trail on the grass and pricked his ear. Silence hung in the air between all of them, heavy with tension, and it was Maram Brightblade who broke it.

“Four cuts,” he idly said. “Enough for profit.”

Zaray looked uneasy, standing on the other side of the altar with a Rasul who’d gotten back to his feet with a groan – his face battered but otherwise not particularly for the worse – as Maram moved nearer to a raised stone to the left and Alisanne stayed back. Silent and unmoving. Ishaq had been waiting for the sound, and so he caught in in time. Taking a hasty step back, he threw the last of the salt on the back even as an angry scream sounded. Blue-eye, beautiful Alisanne appeared at his side. She glowed with anger and something altogether more eldritch, hitting at an invisible wall.

“A circle of salt on barrow grounds will keep a fae imprisoned,” Ishaq mildly said. “Not forever, but long enough to be rid of you I’d think.”

Zaray let out a bark of laughter, circling the altar to stand to his left.

“Knew she was fishy,” Zaray sneered. “No one has hair that nice after nine days in the woods.”

Ishaq had known it was coming since last night, planned for it, but part of him was still surprised when she tried to knife him. He caught her wrist, and a wide-eyed Maram struck to part her head from her neck. What he got, instead, was Rasul’s axe in the back of the head. Maram Brightblade slowly fell to his knees, and a heartbeat later died baffled. Rasul left the axe in there and took out his knife.

“I wish it didn’t have to be me,” Zaray told him. “I amfond of you, Ishaq. But I am already wed.”

“You picked me because of how much I overhear at the Sudden Death,” he mused.

“And because you’re so fucking clever,” she smiled. “I always knew you’d find something good one day.”

“Well,” he mused, “at least you were good in bed.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You’re too calm,” she said.

“The first rule of going into the Brocelian,” Ishaq said, “is to trust no one. But Rasul won’t betray me, your husband or not. He can’t.”

The bearded man raised his free hand, drawing her eye to the ring he wore on it.

“No more than I can betray him,” he said. “We wear oath rings.”

Zaray paled.

“Goodbye,” Ishaq said, reaching for the knife at his hip.

It opened her throat and he stepped back, looking away as she fell. He did not spare her a second look.A noise then drew his attention. A soft sound, with a soft clang. On the altar besides him a finger had been dropped. It still bore an oath ring on it.

“I thank you for the fae wife and arranging my divorce,” Rasul said from behind him. “But you should have sprung for a necklace.”

And then all Ishaq knew was darkness.

Ishaq woke up in the dark, bleeding out from half a dozen wounds and surrounded by death. He was dying on a pile of skulls, a fresher corpse at his side. Samira, he dimply realized. They threw the both of us in the barrow pit. Gasping, he crawled forward. There might be a way up, a way for him to do anything but fucking bleed out in a hole not having been as clever as he thought he was. Bones were digging at him, at his wounds, but he let out a ragged gasp when suddenly his hands were on stone. There was a room down here. A circle of stone on the ground surrounded by masses of dead. Already half-blind, Ishaq felt bronze under his fingers and realized there was a fresco set in the stone.

A story.

A giant raising a city, people kneeling to it. Another giant with an army, and they were worth with each other. The giants sat together at a table and beneath them a pair champions fought. They parted in peace. More of that, champions, winning, but the giant that made the city… mourned? His champion had died and the one that followed was slain. So the giant… made something. A sword, armour. And the champion began to win again, until he lost. But when he did, Ishaq felt out with a gasp, he got back up. From death. Desperately, Ishaq clawed at the bronze and stone. There was another piece ahead of him, a circle set in the stone, and he bled all over it.

Breathing ragged, he got the bronze circle out. Below, he felt out what he’d been looking for: more bronze. A sword and armour. Bleeding, dying, Ishaq clutched at the sword.

“Please,” he rasped. “Please, you whoreson. I’ll do anything.”

The sword shivered in his hand, like a cat waking up. Curiosity. There was something inside of it, Ishaq felt. Power, but an ugly kind. Just a little bit left, and as the sword drank of his blood it gave him something. His breath steadied, his wounds stopped bleeding. His senses came back. It was night, he realized, and moonlight fell through the mouth of the pit. There was a fire above and two voices speaking.

“You can’t do more?” he asked.

The sword sang it sadly.

“How?” he said. “How can you heal me whole?”

A whisper of an image. A man being cut, the sword drinking of something deep in him. His soul, Ishaq realized. And then he saw wounds closing.

“You’re not treasure,” he softly laughed. “You’re a barrow curse.”

Ishaq slowly got to his feet, the bronze sword in hand, and listened to the voices above. Rasul should have made sure he was dead, he thought as he began to put on the armour.

Ishaq would be certain not to make that mistake.

Chapter 61: Break

“If victory were not sweet, we would not drink its poison so deeply.”

– Dread Empress Terribilia

We came at the wall in waves.

Thirty feet of stone, topped by an army’s worth of dead. Bastions that rose even higher to make room for the siege engines to fire, bristling with catapults and ballistae. Wards crackled with power as the first ladders were laid against the wall, cracking the steel-capped wood, and out of sight dead mages stood in circles to weave rituals that would turn men to screams and dust. I sent away Zombie after the second time she was shot under me, back on my feet with a sword in hand. Legionaries – mine and Praes’, in the smoke and ash it was hard to tell them apart – put up their shields above their heads as the dead shots bows and threw chunks of masonry.

 I saw an orc’s head turn to pulp as rock the size of a table went through his shield, the corpse toppling to the ground with it. Javelins punch through plate, sorcery tore burning holes in the shield walls and above us the clouds were turning dark again. I tossed around Night heedlessly, feeling the coolness in my veins begin to turn raw – like sandpaper was being dragged around my insides – and shattered a parapet just in time for a young legionary to land her ladder into the rubble. A heartbeat later a skeleton wielding a hooked pole tried to push it back, but Akua’s hand shoved me aside as she yelled out an incantation in the mage tongue.

 A ball of translucent sorcery formed around the top of the ladder, expanding into a shield that blew the skeleton off the rampart.

“Forward,” I shouted, ducking low to avoid a whistling arrow. “It’s the last wall!”

Half a lie. The palaces would have walls of their own and the Dead King’s lair as well, but it was true there were no ramparts left lying ahead. Behind the heights of stone stood the inner city of Keter, the central third leading to the ancient hills turned plateau the city had been built around. It would be the hardest fight yet, I knew, but my blood still sang at the knowledge that we were there. We’d nearly made to the heart of Keter, past all the horror and madness. We were so close to the last struggle I could almost feel it on my tongue. The girl who’d landed her ladder began to climb, but three rungs up she dropped with an arrow in the throat. Her body fell to the side, rising a wight, and a large orc began his climb.

I hurried there, elbowing soldiers as I went and Akua following in my wake. Legionaries kept taking the ladder and they kept dying, the dead intent on snuffing out the first ladder landed, but concentrating their fire cost them. Other ladders began to stay up, and as the twentieth body died to rise undead my own boot touched the bottom of the ladder.

“Catherine-” Akua began.

“Keep them off me,” I interrupted, and sword in hand began the climb.

My bad leg throbbed. It’d been too long since I’d last put on full plate as I now wore and I wasn’t used to the weight anymore. But climbing up the ladder wouldn’t require me to dance around, just to keep going. Akua cursed profusely, but even as arrows began to fall on me from both sides roiling winds shot up to blanket me. A rung, then another, and as I rose a legionary stepped in to follow. A javelin came from above and I had to press myself against the wall, the wood of the rung digging into my throat, and though it passed me the man behind me took it in the eye. Another rung. There was a shout from below and I looked to my left, drawn by instinct, only to find a blur of movement.

I pulled on Night and threw black flame at it, the heat and power of the impact forcing the ballista bolt off course. Gods, that would have gone right through my ribs.

I hurried up and I was two-thirds through when the shield Akua had bespelled to protect the top of the ladder shattered under a stream of curses, breaking into shards that soon faded. Even as I desperately dragged myself up I saw a pair of skeletons with hooked poles catch the side rails and begin to push. There were soldiers beneath, enough that the ladder weighed too heavy to easily push, but it moved backwards half an inch and my heart leapt up in my throat. I climbed another rung as Akua blew one of the skeletons way, but it was replaced in a heartbeat and more began to put their hands to the pole to push. Fuck, I thought as I went up another rung and saw I wouldn’t make in time.

The ladder was pushed back another inch, and it was so close to the angle that’d topple us that I hissed. I threw Night in clumps but the skeletons I shattered were replaced, and as I went up another rung the ladder began to topple – until I snarled, sending Night racing down the edge of my blade, and hacked at the hook of the closest pole pushing us back. The strike went right through, the headless pole dipping down and getting stuck between rungs as the weight shifted. Half the ladder was against the wall again, and with a triumphant cry I went up another rung. Close enough to hack at the legs of the skeletons, though I had to duck back under to avoid getting impaled by a spear.

I tossed a ball of black flame over the edge as I did, and a heartbeat later I was atop the wall.

It was a bloody whirl after that. I couldn’t even tell how many of them I was fighting – they were coming from all sides, with swords and axes and spears. I ripped a dagger out of one’s hand after blowing through his head with Night, taking it as parrying blade, but Gods I wished I had a shield. Legionaries followed behind me and we were pushed back-to-back, forced to keep our foothold on the wall open with the clash of steel. I parried and struck with the strength of my Name, shattering arm bones and cracking skulls, until I felt Akua behind me again and suddenly the wall to our left was a frozen block of ice. I moved to cover her while she stood back panting, face trickling with sweat, and took off another skeleton’s head after turning his blade aside with the dagger.

Legionaries kept coming up, wights among them, and I took a few steps back from the melee to catch my breath. It allowed me a look at the fighting on the wall beyond us, which was a grim sight. We were landing ladders more easily now that we’d forced the dead to fight us up close as well, but soldiers were dropping like flies. Would I even still have an army come nightfall? If the Praesi hadn’t come we would all be dead, I thought.

Akua’s ice broke as curses struck it from below, exploding into a shower of shards – I felt some cut up my cheeks and the side of my nose, blood flowing free – but a ladder was being landed past it and I moved that way, sword high as I called for soldiers to follow. The push was aborted, though, when arrows of bright red flame tore through the enemy and there was the howl of wind. A heartbeat later the Rogue Sorcerer landed with a fluttering coat among wisps of flame, footing uncertain from the wind magic he’d used to aid his lip.

“Clear the wall,” I shouted, pointing my sword at the enemy laying beyond him.

Legionaries charged, sweeping past him and colliding with thick ranks of skeletons. I didn’t go with them, instead moving towards my friend as soldiers began to come up the ladder to our side.

“Where the Hells are the Procerans?” I asked him, shouting to be heard over the din. “We’re getting butchered out there, Roland.”

“They got bogged down,” he shouted back. “Ran into the Grey Legion.”

I spat to the side, spit sticking to lips and flecking my cheek. Yeah, I couldn’t blame them for slowing in the face of those monsters. I’d been hoping the Dead King would hold them back like an honour guard, but apparently they were worth committing to keep Procer off his back while the inner wall was fought over.

“Is the Prince of Bones leading them?” I asked.

“No, he isn’t,” the Rogue Sorcerer said. “Catherine, something’s wrong. There’s word from the League, the Hawk isn’t at the battle out in the Ossuary. Hanno says he fought the Seelie and a pack of Revenants but-”

A crack of thunder drowned out his last words. I got the gist anyway. The Scourges that’d fought had been held back from serious engagements, the Prince of Bones and the Hawk had yet to make an appearance and it all stank to the high Heavens. I went to look for a story, and though I couldn’t quite feel out what it was about my stomach sunk when I was faced with tangible proof that there was a story. One about the last remaining Scourges, who numbered five. About them fighting as a single band. Indrani went out with the army, I thought. We have no one who can check the Hawk except for… I grabbed Roland by the collar and dragged him close.

“Get the Silver Huntress here,” I ordered. “As quick as you can. Send the Painted Knife to get her if you have to, otherwise we’re-”

If Akua hadn’t slammed a shield in place a heartbeat later, I would have died. The arrow would have gone right through my neck, instead of slowing as it punched through the panel of sorcery and letting me move just quick enough it bit at the side of my helmet instead. I backed away hastily, once more cursing my lack of a shield, which ended up saving my life for the second time in two heartbeats. I heard the crunch even as I felt the air against my face. It was, I realized, a rock. Someone had thrown a rock the size of a small house my way, and it’d come close enough to me I’d felt like a whisper on my skin. It tumbled past the wall, earning screams and then a wet crushing sound, and for a heartbeat terror seized my throat.

Akua was alive, I saw. She’d been moving between me and the edge of the rampart, so she’d been out of the way. The knot in my guts loosened, but only so much. I turned to Roland, who was gaping, and my hand went back to his collar.

“You still have that wind magic?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Why do you-”

“Get me the Silver Huntress,” I cut through, and threw him off the rampart.

It was only thirty feet. Wouldn’t kill a hero even if he didn’t get his artefact out in time – which he did, ending up rolling across rooftop tiles like a human tumbleweed. By the time I turned, Akua had stepped back from the rampart’s edge and closer to me. Her free hand was low, magic dancing across her fingers in subtle shifts of light.

“That was the Prince of Bones,” the golden-eyed sorceress told me. “And it won’t be the last stone he throws.”

“We’re fucked if we stay here on the wall,” I said. “Almost all of them are nasty customers from a distance and we’re out in the open. We need to-”

It was prettily done, I appreciated that deep down. First the stone – large as the last, and this time I saw where in the streets it came from – drew my eye and I pulled on Night by reflex, spinning rope around it to swing it around like a sling to throw back. But it had been meant to get caught, and in its wake came an arrow. Akua caught that, belted out a spell that had steel shivering all around us and froze the arrowhead in the air. Then the both of us took the Mantle’s curse right on, as we’d been meant to all along. I dropped my working on the stone, abandoning it to gravity, but the Night I tried to throw up in the way was just a shade too slow. I was blown off my feet, blinded as I felt myself fall through dust. Stone, she broke the stone.

Akua screamed, as much in rage as fear, and the two of us fell down in the street below. I felt blades scrape at my armour and one cut across my face as I abandoned my flesh eye and looked through Night instead. We’d fallen into a knot of enemy soldiers, Akua missing a chunk of her left pauldron and the shoulder beneath it. I glimpsed bone even as she laid a hand on it and flesh formed anew with a hiss. I slashed through a head, then was driven back by a warhammer I awkwardly stopped by hitting the handle but still bounced off my shoulder plate. Snarling, I leaned forward and pulled on Night: I spat out a stream of black flame, incinerating the undead before me. But they’d lasted long enough to slow us, damn them.

I helped Akua back to her feet, hacking away at a spear that came a little too close, the two of us finding out backs to a powder-covered wall.

“We need to get to stairs,” she said. “Get back to your troops.”

“We need to survive,” I grimly replied, looking ahead. “They’re here.”

The Prince of Bones was hard to miss, hulking shape of steel that he was. Like half a dozen armours had swallowed slightly smaller ones, leaving only a monstrous golem with the outline of a man. His face was a mask of steel, frowning sternly with eyes that were sculpted. Not a hole anywhere on him, only shifting layers of steel and the large greatsword he held in a single hand as he marched towards us. The Mantle was but a step behind him, mace hoisted on her shoulder, but of the Hawk and the Tumult I found no trace. They would remain hidden until they struck, I thought. As for the Seelie…

“Steel yourself,” I warned.

A heartbeat later, it struck us like a wave. Love me. You love me, love me most of all the things in the world. You love me, so obey. Rip her apart. In the back of my mind Komena sneered and the force broke into smoke, but at my side Akua went stiff. I was already striking by the time the mane of red hair appeared in front of her, but as I opened the throat of a voluptuous redhead in a ballroom gown it faded without my steel touching anything solid. An illusion. The tricky pest always –

“Fuck,” I snarled as I felt a knife slide between my ribs.

The Seelie’s impossibly beautiful face leaned towards mine, smiling as she went for a kiss, but I grabbed her by the throat and drew on my Name to toss her up. She flew for a moment, then shattered into rose petals as I put a hand to my side. My armour was unmarked. A real wound or another illusion? I’d never fought the Scourge up close before. I shifted under my armour, but the wet I felt could be sweat as well as blood. The pain, though, that was real. Akua was back to herself just in time to throw up that magnetism spell again, though she put her back into it this time: not only did it catch the Hawk’s arrow but it also crumpled the three closest ranks of skeletons into balls of metal.

“That,” Akua bit out, “was most unpleasant.”

“Tell me about it,” I grunted. “Never been good with redheads.”

My flesh eye had been working for some time, but it was still with the others I looked around.

“Stairs to the left,” I said. “It’s our best chance.”

“Depressingly true,” Akua noted, which I took as agreement.

We made a break for it. If there was one weakness to the Prince and the Mantle, it was that their bulk made them slow – especially in broken terrain like the ruined street full of undead soldiers we were fighting our way through. The enemy wasted no time in trying to stop us. Rain began to fall in front of us, a ball of clouds gathering and being milked dry of water that is spat out as a torrent of water filling the street. Undead were knocked aside, and though there wasn’t enough flow to topple us the street ran wet and our footing slowed. I evaporated the could ball with a blast of blackflame, in time for Akua to send a spike of sinuous darkness right into the heart of a sizzling curse – it broke apart instantly.

Undead converged on us from all asides and I could not torch them as fast as they appeared, not without slowing too much. I parried and hacked and tried to push forward but that fucking water got everywhere and when I was forced to make an awkward parry I slipped. Akua blasted off the Bind’s head but my back still hit the floor, water seeping into my armour by the neck, and I swallowed a scream as my side throbbed. Yeah, the Seelie had definitely stabbed me. I was dragged back to my feet, slashing blindly at a ghouls coming close, but froze when I saw that above us a hundred spear of sizzling lightning were forming. Gods, we were both drenched. It wouldn’t even need to hit us, just…

I pulled on Night and Akua released me to raise her hand and incant, but the Hawk shot again and I had to spin a sphere of darkness that sucked in the arrow that’d have killed her. From the corner of my eye I saw a flicker of movement – red hair and that fucking smug smile again – as love me, love only me pounded away at my mind. Akua shifted her incantation halfway through, flicking her hand and melting the Seelie’s face to the bone, but it’d been an illusion. Above us the lightning spears came down as she Scourge reappeared to my side, knife already halfway to my lung, but the Beast laughed into my ear. A boot tore into the Seelie’s cheek, her face betraying utter surprise as Hanno of Arwad landed on it feet first.

Above us, the spears had stopped midair. The went an inch down and then back up, as if two wills were fighting for control of the spell. Masego, I thought, you prince among sorcerers. Forty feet away I saw the Prince of Bones stop to casually rip out a wall and throw it our way, but before I could pull on Night the scent of ozone filled the air. The wall crumbled into dust and through I night I saw a silhouette standing atop the wall, a woman in a painted stone mask and a long green cloak. The Witch of the Woods had come, I realized with a pulse of excitement.

“Apologies,” Hanno calmly said, getting back to his feet from the crouch he’d landed in. “I must admit I got lost on my way.”

The Seelie had faded into golden smoke as she fell under him, though not before receiving a cut across the face for her troubles.

“Fighting back against Ashuran stereotypes, I see,” I croaked out, because ‘thank you’ would have been too much.

It got a snort out of Akua, at least. Wait, should I be worried the Doom of Liesse was the only one who’d laughed?

“I try,” Hanno said. “Reinforcements are headed our way, Warden. I called on all we could spare.”

I cracked my neck, wiping away some of the blood still seeping down my cheek mixed with sweat.

“Let’s see what the Scourges of made of, then,” I said, spitting to the side.

Above us the lightning spears suddenly faded. The Tumult, I suspected, had decided it was better to try another spell than to keep pitting his will against Masego’s.

“Let’s,” Hanno agreed, raising his sword with a smile.

The Prince of Bones moved first and I tensed, but to my utter surprise he did not attack. Instead, he turned his back and ran.

“Bold,” Akua murmured, appreciative.

“Fuck,” I feelingly said. “Pursue, go.”

The Hawk tried to put an arrow in Hanno’s eye, who plucked it out of the air with a vaguely irritated look – come on, part of me complained, he’s not even Named right now! – as Akua and I shot forward. The Dead King would have none of it, though. All the undead across four city blocks went still for a moment, and then they began to throw themselves at us. I shouted and let loose streaks of blackflame as I cut through a torrent of soldiers who didn’t even try to kill me, just throw themselves in my way, but even when Akua blew them away with a gust of wind it was too late: darkness came down over us, the Mantle covering the retreat of the Scourges with her favourite trick.

It didn’t last long with Hanno around, Light coming out in a torrent that shattered the curse, but it was enough. The Witch tossed a few houses at them as they retreated but we caught none and I felt frustration bubble up my throat. The Dead King was denying us a scrap, had been doing it all day. Was he trying to tire us out or simply keeping the Scourges as his last trump card? Either way, dragging Named here would just be wasting them at the moment.

“Hanno,” I shouted. “Go help on the wall. Can the Witch help get the Procerans through the Grey Legion?”

“We’ll do what we can,” he shouted back.

I nodded him thanks and he offered back the sketch of a bow. The cheeky bastard. I felt Akua’s eyes on my back and turned.

“To the stairs,” I told her, looking back up at the rampart.

The Legions of Terror and Army of Callow had secured more than a dozen footholds, it was time to turn that into a push. The Dead King wanted to play coy? I’d force his fucking hand.

“I’m with you,” Akua promised, which I enjoyed hearing more than was wise.

We went back up, scything through the dead, and I found a captain to bark orders for me. We took two companies into the closest gatehouse, clearing out the ghouls and the beorn inside, and then forced the gates open. The steel jaws opened below our feet, soldiers pouring through, and I grinned. Now we had the initiative again. Roland should be back with the Silver Huntress soon, but I wanted us to gobble up a few blocks to hold first. We fought our way back down, arms tired and short of breath, to take the lead of the companies that’d gone through the gate. With a shout I took them to the last dead on the avenue, smashing our way through, and we pushed into the inner city.

Resistance, to my rising discomfort, was sparse. The dead were disorganized, coming at us in disjointed bands, and the push I’d meant to take a few blocks with kept ripping forward through the ranks of the dead. I only began to slow when we were past at least ten blocks, and when I found a great granite gargoyle at a street corner I frowned. I knew this place I realized. This corner. I had once been carried past here on a litter as a guest of the Dead King, dead royalty bearing me to the Silent Palace where I was to be hosted. We weren’t just past the inner wall, we were halfway to the heart of Keter. To victory. My heartbeat thundered against my ears and my steps slowed, my legionaries slowing with me.

“Catherine?” Akua asked.

“We’re getting close to the five palaces,” I said. “We need the arrows in our quiver readied before we go further.”

I kept my words vague, since you never knew who might be listening in this city, but she knew what I meant: the Mirror Knight and the Severance, Hierophant and the Crown of Autumn. Going after the King of Death without either would be madness. Neshamah was the most powerful sorcerer Calernia had ever known and likely ever would, fighting him head on in his seat of power would only get us killed. Not even the Sisters would be able to help me when we got to the hall where the Greater Breach lay and the monster that’d made it would be waiting for us.

“I’ll send the signal,” the golden-eyed sorceress agreed.

The spell was simple enough, a variation on the signal lights that the Legions and the Army had been using for years. Akua flicked her wrist at the sky, incanting brusquely, and three streaks of blue shot out. After rising high they exploded into a broad circle, one large enough that there would be no missing it even through the poison clouds and the ashen rain.

“Thanks,” I said.

Then I turned to the company at my side, its soldiers and officers having ceased to advance when I did.

“We’re in deep now, ladies and gentlemen,” I told them. “Maybe half an hour’s walk ahead are the palace we’re going for, and before we can send in Named to end this we’re going to need to secure this corner. First we-”

Everyone felt it, when the sorcery lit up. Even the most power-blind of my legionaries felt their bones shake, their soul flinch. My hand shot up, Night already raging throughs my veins, and Akua was already halfway through a shield spell before we both stopped. The magic wasn’t coming from ahead of us but from below. Far under our feet.

“Akua?” I asked.

She did not answer, golden eyes gone wide. Instead she knelt down on the ash-streaked ground, ripping off her helmet and pressing her cheek against the stone.

“Akua,” I said again, tone sharper.

“The ritual is below,” she said, palm against the floor. “Far enough not even Hierophant can trouble it. But there is something more, Catherine. It is an array, a large one, and-”

The pulse washed over us in the heartbeat that followed. It felt like nothing at all, I thought, but then Sven Noc was howling in rage within my soul and Night boiled out without my having even called it. Akua had gotten to her feet, I saw, and was panicking as she shouted an incantation and traced glowing runes in the air. Over the three heartbeats it took her to finish the spell, I saw her face under the helmet change. Lines deepened, the arc of her brow grew more pronounced. My stomach dropped as I turned towards my soldiers. Their helmets were open-faced, hiding nothing: faces aged, skin growing thick with lines and hair turning white.

Before ten heartbeats had passed every single one of my legionaries dropped dead of old age.

“Gods,” I croaked, staggering back.

I looked further back at the others who’d followed me past the wall, and saw that behind me lay a trail of corpses that’d fallen down as gently as leaves dropping from a tree. Not a single one of them taken by sword or spear, they’d just… died. The trail of corpses went all the way back to the inner wall, atop which some of my legionaries were shouting in horror. It ends at the wall, I thought. Ice seizing my heart I turned to Akua, who was shimmering with pale green light but was, to my immense relief, alive and no longer aging. She panted softly, sweat trickling down her brow.

“That,” Akua Sahelian softly said, “aged me at least a decade.”

“This isn’t time magic,” I numbly said. “There’s no such thing as time in Trismegistan magic. What the Hells is this, Akua?”

“Not a spell,” she said, straightening. “It is Keter’s Due.”

My fingers clenched.

“You meant he pulled off what you did at the Doom,” I said. “Sucked in the magic of the Due into other arrays and-”

“He was not quite so skilled,” Akua interrupted me. “As I said, Catherine, this is not a spell.”

She shot a look at the stone under out feet.

“I believe that somewhere under our feet are buried artefacts that were empowered by the wasted magic of the Due,” she continued. “Thousands of them, whose only purpose is to tint that emanated magic with a specific kind of entropy.”

My eye narrowed. Night raged in my veins, the blessing of the Sisters keeping death from touching me.

“Aging,” I said.

“Specifically flesh, I think,” Akua said. “Or perhaps living flesh?”

“But that means,” I slowly said, “that this isn’t even the ritual from below. Then what is that fucking magic for?”

Fate handed me the answer, bitch that she was, when in the distance there was an ear-splitting rumble. It was so loud as to drown out even screams, but I saw enough. Over the inner wall I could see the top of some towers, and they were moving. The outer city was rotating, Gods save us all. And it got worse, because when the city ceased turning instead it moved another direction: pushed up by some invisible force, entire districts of the city shot up. Though I could not see it, from the way some towers disappeared I guessed that some districts were going down as well. Like some sort of demented jigsaw puzzle, the outer city of Keter had just turned itself into a series of plateaus and chasms.

“Gods preserve us,” Akua murmured.

She saw it too, then. This was death, the death of every living soldier in the city. Maybe not immediately, but that single stroke had ensured there was now not even a single army inside the walls: all our forces had been moved away from the breaches they’d come in through and then split into smaller pieces, left alone on platforms with whatever enemy forces had been in the district when it was raised or lowered. We’d win some of those fights, for sure. But it wouldn’t matter a fucking bit, because now all those soldiers were stuckand the dead would go around extinguishing them one force at a time. There could be no reinforcements, no manoeuvring, and undead could climb goddamn cliffs – or leap down them, if need be. Living people could not.

“I’ve killed us all,” I faintly said. “Weeping Heavens, I’ve killed us all.”

The city was as much an army-killer as the dead within it, and I’d driven us deep into its embrace. There would be no recovering from this.

“The battle is not yet over,” Akua said. “We can still recover. Retreat, perhaps, if-”

Behind us, dead soldiers began to twitch. And I heard the sound of boots coming from ahead. More undead, soldiers that’d care nothing for this curse of entropy.

“Catherine, we need to go,” she urgently said.

I stood there dazed until she pulled at my arm, allowing myself to be tugged away. It was over, I realized. We ran through the rising soldiers I’d just led to their deaths and I felt myself blast those who came too close with Night as if someone else were doing it – Akua could do nothing, all her concentration maintaining the shield that kept her alive – and we ran for the wall, for the gate where some my soldiers still stood and fought. We climbed the stairs, black flames burning behind us, and as Akua finally released her spell I stumbled to the edge of the rampart. There I saw it all, the madhouse that Keter had become. Raised heights of and deep drops, both moved by some mechanism built deep under the bedrock of the capital.

And as the magic below our feet kept burning, the outer city began to move again.

It span, only what had been a mere imposition was now brutally lethal: houses broke, soldiers and undead fell off the edge of those cliffs as the centrifugal force caught them. And for those below, they found those same broken houses dropped atop their heads by the force of the spin. Shields of sorcery and Light bloomed, trying to mitigate the damage and staying there until at last the spinning stopped, but I knew it wouldn’t be enough. The Dead King would just keep spinning his city again and again until the ritual burned out, long after the last of our mages and priests had fallen to exhaustion. And none of this, I realized, not a single part of this was actually aimed at anyone. It was all indirect, distant. The kind of danger that no hero would rise against, that no story would help destroy.

“We lost,” I murmured.

The exhaustion of the day caught up to me all at once and my leg gave, tearing a pained gasped out of my throat as I half-fell and had to catch myself against the crenellation. There were shouts of surprise and a moment later Akua was holding me up, arm under my shoulder as she asked a question I didn’t hear. Gods, I was so tired. I’d burned myself out on Night, and now that the strength of my Name – the hope of victory – was fading, the edges of my vision were going dark. And I was seeing thing, too, because suddenly light got harsher. I blinked dumbly, looking up at a sky that was suddenly cloudless.

“What’s happening?” I croaked out.

Akua said something, but it was as if she was speaking through water. I saw them then. Only a few hundred, standing in the ruins of the gate Hanno had broken, but they were impossible to miss: never before had I seen so many giants. And among the Gigantes one stood taller than all the rest, a flame burning within him that hurt my eye to behold.

“Blood loss,” Akua said, talking to someone else. “The fucking fool, she’s going into sho-”

Young King,” Kreios the Riddle-Maker called out, “let me remind you who is it that you dare ape with your works.”

When darkness came to swallow me whole, I did not fight it.

Chapter 60: Blood

“When the gathered princes of the Alamans demanded to know by what right she asked them to swear obeisance, Triumphant laughed and replied: ‘To be Dread Empress of Praes is to be a question asked of all Creation: will you kneel, or be made to?’”

– Extract from the Scroll of Dominion, twenty-fourth of the Secret Histories of Praes

I’d never seen her wear that armour before.

A plumed conical helm of steel worked with gold engravings led to a sheet of mail covering her throat, all of it above a beautifully worked set of red chain mail covered in parts by segmented plate – pauldrons sculpted like lionheads, an ornate breastplate with a crimson sash for belt and skirted panels that covered both her legs down to her knees. It was all red and gold, save for the sword sheathed her hip. That was pure steel except for the egg-sized ruby set into the pommel. The entire set shone with subtle engravings that reeked of magic. Protective enchantments, I guessed. I made myself stop staring, though not quite quickly to avoid an amused quirk of those full lips.

“You sure you’ve got him?” I asked, gesturing at the Tumult.

He was rising to his feet, magic already ticking around his hands.

“My heart,” Akua drawled, “if I had him any more, I would already have spent him.”

“A yes would have sufficed,” I informed her, pulling at Night.

“Ah,” she smiled, “but where would the fun in that be?”

Tendrils of shadow tossed me up a moment later, even as I smelled a scent like ozone and heard Akua say something in Mthethwa that sounded a lot like ‘how pedestrian’. Well, if she could afford to be that condescending I figured she’d be all right. I landed with a hiss of pain atop the tiled roof just in time to watch the Red Knight lose a few teeth. Even most Named I knew would have died when taking a hit of the Mantle’s mace on the side of the face, but instead the villainess was thrown like a rag doll and spat out a few bloody teeth. The Mantle did not pause to rejoice, instead turning to me without batting an eye as I looked for the other Revenant that’d been there and found him missing. I was not sure whether to be glad of that or not.

I pulled on Night and released most of it, tossing a handful of black flame her way, but just as I’d thought she immediately pulled her favourite trick: the world went black as she drenched the area in darkness. For me, anyway. The worst part of that trick had always been how it didn’t affect her at all.

Fortunately, she’d used it often enough I was not in the least surprised. And, more importantly, I sunk the last of the Night into the tiles of the roof. A heartbeat later I felt one resonate as a step was taken on it, so without hesitation I flicked my wrist and agitated the Night in the tile: it blew up. The darkness faded, revealing the hole the Mantle had just fallen through, and I smiled. The Scourge was twice my size and encased in the heaviest armour I’d ever seen, but those strengths came with costs. Like, you know, weighing enough that you’d fall right through any weakened rooftop instantly. I limped to the side, a cursed turning to powder the tile I’d been standing on a moment earlier, and through that opening tossed another handful of black flame at the Mantle. I’d used the fire on her often enough to know it wouldn’t do shit to that armour, but there was one thing it was quite good at: blinding the Revenant senses that she used instead of her eyes.

So while she put out the fire I’d just thrown in her face, I continued limping away and let the Night rage through my veins. I wove strands quickly, doubling back to strengthen them, and I had just finished the second layer when I felt the Mantle lose her temper. Or so I assumed, because she’d put enough strength into that curse there was goosebumps all over my skin. I kept backing away, but it came to nothing when the entire roof turned into smoke beneath me. That’s a problem, I idly noted as I began to fall. The way she waiting for me below, already beginning the swing that would smash my ribs and rupture my guts, was also something of a problem.

Fortunately for her, I had a secret weapon.

Know your place,” the Red Knight snarled, and smashed her war hammer into the back of the Mantle’s head.

There was a satisfying sound as the back of the Revenant’s helmet crumpled, but to the villainess’ surprise her blow went no deeper. The real win was my insides staying on the inside, though, as the Mantle had to kill her swing long enough to backhand the Red Knight through a wall. That was two wins, really, when you thought about it. My Name tugged at me and I did not resist, angling my fall. My bad leg gave when I landed, to my swallowed moan of pain, but the way I dropped down ended up ensuring that a boiling curse didn’t end up cooking my brain so luck me. Wincing as I rose, I stepped out of the way of a mace swing. I wasn’t worried up close, at least.

The Mantle had been a priestess in life, not a warrior. Her danger up close came from strength and size, not skill, and I was a few years past being scared of something just for those.

“You know,” I said, “I’ve never heard you talk.”

The swing shattered the wall behind me but a half-step took me out of the arc, and she wasn’t quite quick enough with the follow-up curse: I tossed a handful of black flames at her wrist before she loosed it, scrapping her aim. It went through the open door and melted stone in the street. Nasty, I thought.

“I can’t tell if you’re one of those Neshamah had to cut up the soul of badly so they’d obey,” I said, “or if it’s because there’s just no mouth to speak with under that helm.”

It was an impressive piece, admittedly, covering her entire face in lengths of steel save for two downwards eye slits. The spikes that went past the crown of her head almost evoked the shape of a crown.  The floor trembled as the blow meant to rip down through my shoulder hit nothing but air and stone while I twisted my will, keeping an eye on her as I took the working I’d crafted earlier in hand. Almost ready, I just needed her distracted. A heartbeat later what looked like a wave of pure heat melted through half the room we were in, forcing her to hastily backpedal away while in the distance I heard Akua call the Tumult a clumsy debutante in Mthethwa. That’ll do, I mused, and pulled.

The string of Night twanged over my head, pulled tight by one of the pulleys I’d formed out of sight, and it caught the Mantle in the chest. The force of the pull slammed her into the wall, where she immediately began to struggle to get out. I took a limping step forward, raising my hand.

“That’s the problem with being so large,” I told her. “Makes you an easier target, and you need so much room to move.”

Another chord passed over my head with a twanging sound, tightening her against the wall. And I didn’t need to bend because she was so tall, not because I was fucking short. I was a goddamn queen, so implying otherwise was treason. The Mantle changed tactics, moving to smash the wall she was being pinned against instead, bit I flicked my wrist and another chord bound her while she was trying to move it. No room, no swing. She could be as strong as she wanted, without space to move it meant nothing. I bound her twice more as I approached, closing in.

“I couldn’t help but notice you usually move when using a curse,” I told her. “Not everyone needs that, but then you weren’t born a priestess of curses were you? While you breathed it was Light you used. It’s not your speciality.”

And undead, for all their strengths in some regards, could not truly learn. If it had been a limit for her while she lived, she would not overcome it no matter how long she existed. I raised my sword, pulling on Night, and dipped into my Name to See what lay ahead. I paused in surprise, which almost cost me my life. When her mace exploded with power, a blind curse of wrath shattering the wall the Mantle was bound to, I froze for a moment as I returned to the here and now. Tearing through the chords of Night she swung down with all her strength, but in the moment that I beheld the present I saw it. An opening. A half step to the left as the mace came down, inclining my head even further and angling my body so that the diagonal downwards swing missed be by a hair’s breadth.

She pivoted, other hand coming to slam a curse into my belly even as she broke the floor with her mace but I pivoted and smoothly, almost gently, thrust upwards. I’d barely even taken two steps, I thought as the point of my sword slid into the eyehole, but then that was the difference between strength and skill wasn’t it?

Silence,” I said, aspect burning down my blade.

Her power winked out and her limps dropped as I felt steel cut into bone. As I’d thought, she couldn’t actually move around that mass of steel she was encased in without the help of something like an enchantment. I knew deep in my bones that the aspect would only silence the Mantle’s power for a moment, but a moment was all I needed. I pulled on Night as I raised my free hand, moving to slam it onto the pommel of my sword to incinerate everything inside the armour, but before I could sorcery bloomed above my head. Gods, I thought as I glanced up, above everyone’s head.

Storm clouds roiled, but that wasn’t half as worrisome as the lightning I could see rippling inside them.

I hastily threw up the Night I’d been pulling in into a shield instead of a killing stroke, feeling it shudder as lightning struck at it. And then twice more. I backed away, half expecting a mace to be swung at my head, but after I took cover under an arch what I saw was that the Mantle had been blasted as well. She’d dropped her mace. Unlike me, though she was able to walk a lightning strike off. Something she proved by hastily leaving the house we’d been brawling in, turning the corner and out of sight. Fuck. I took a step forward, wanting to pursue, but lightning began to fall again and I had to put up a shield of Night. Cursing, I doubled back to where I’d left Akua only to find her already headed my way.

“That’s the Tumult, right?” I said, pointing upwards.

“It is,” she admitted. “I took off both his arms but he fled and threw that up behind him to cover his retreat.”

“The Mantle’s as well,” I grunted. “Can you end it?”

She shook her head.

“Magic was used to make the storm and is still being used to guide strikes, but the lightning storm itself is not magical,” Akua said. “Unless I-”

Lightning struck, but that wasn’t what caught my attention. It was the way it curved back up, then hit another lightning bolt. What in the Hells, I thought, as slowly every speck of lightning within the clouds was gathered into a single sphere. I felt an aspect at work there, but it wasn’t the Tumult’s. I was sure of that.

“Gods behold,” Akua grinned, almost girlish. “It is Masego.”

“Lightning’s not a form of power, though,” I said. “He shouldn’t be able to control it.”

“Unless,” she said, “he copied the Tumult’s guiding spell from looking at it, cast it as well and then wrested that.”

Lightning came down in a blinding wave ahead of us, forcing me to cover my eye and serving as helpful reminder that Masego was still one of the most terrifying people I’d ever met. I was reminded twice over when we linked back up with my legionaries, finding then that the lighting had ended up clearing most of the enemy ahead while essentially razing three city blocks as a collateral. Fucking Hells, Zeze. You’re not pulling your punches today. As I’d expected, Kallia’s band of five had come out ahead in the struggle. I got to hear as much from her, as well as something else I’d spared a moment to wonder about.

“The wizard Revenant retreated with the ragged one,” the Painted Knife told me.

I grimaced. So Neshamah had decided they were useful enough to keep for the rematch that no doubt awaited us deeper in. Good to know.

“Stay with the Army of Callow,” I ordered her. “I need you to cover them from Named. Akua Sahelian and I will go with the vanguard.”

“As you say, Warden,” Kallia replied.

The push to the avenue was staggeringly fast, what with Hierophant having essentially vaporized our opposition. We pushed forward and the moment I set foot on the pavement stones I sent a runner back. We were, at long last, past the first hurdle.

Keter’s avenues were massive things, all of them at least forty feet wide and paved with massive slabs of granite that went deep into the earth. It was needed for constructs to be able to move about the capital without constantly wrecking everything – no matter how careful a giant death snake was being, it did not stop being a giant death snake. The rain of ash made it hard for men to see too far ahead, but my dead eye had become a thousand one of Night instead. I saw far and gave a hard smile at what I found: we’d caught the enemy out of position. The avenue went up in an angled slope all the way to the inner-city wall, a ring of stout bastions bristling with soldiers and war machines, and though there were enemies by the thousands gathering along the length of it there was no cohesive force.

 It was half a dozen packs of undead being thrown in the way, not a proper army.

“Secure our position,” I shouted. “I want those alleys blocked off and a vanguard readied for a push.”

Absent-mindedly I pulled on Night and tossed out a ball of black flame, incinerating the head of the beorn that’d risked popping out of cover ahead of my men. The legionaries cheered and got to work with tired professionalism, moving out as the sergeants and lieutenants barked out their orders. Though we’d broken through the Dead King’s barricades, our advance put us in a precarious position. We were like an iron spike driven into a block of ice: all the streets around the grounds we’d taken there were still thick with undead. Right now we were suffering only small probes, but that was because they would be gathering in bands led by Binds so that they could mass enough numbers to be a threat when attacking our position instead of blade fodder.

The relative steadiness of our advance was an illusion whose end was fast approaching. If this were another sort of siege it would have been worth it to try to clear the lower city of Keter before we assault the inner wall, but here it would be suicide: we’d wreck our armies beyond repair doing that. Instead we had to push through and roll the dice, driving deep towards the Hellgate so we might take it and the Dead King with it. I grabbed the shoulder of the closest captain – a dusky-skinned Taghreb with chubby cheeks – and leaned in closer.

“Where has Lady Akua gone?” I asked, lowering my voice.

“She has gone to rifle through dead bodies, Your Majesty,” the captain replied.

There was not a hint of the distaste in his voice that I would have found in a Callowan reporting the same thing. I almost asked him ‘what for’, but I was doubtful he knew and it’d mean admitting that I didn’t. Instead I sagely nodded and released his shoulder after reminding him to send Commander Spitter’s runner my way the moment they arrived. I needed word from the rest of the fight for Keter as soon as possible before deciding whether we should commit to a push up the avenue. The opportunity was there, and soon to fade, but if we were going at it alone it’d be nothing but an elaborate suicide charge. Thankfully, I did not have to wait long.

Though I had expected one, it was not a legionary that returned bearing news and I cocked an eyebrow when an unexpected pair approached instead. One I was familiar with, a girl in dusty mages robes with a bony face and a scowl bearing Masego’s old Name: Sapan of Ashur, the Apprentice. The second I did not know as well, save through the words of others. The Page was not all that tall, though his slenderness gave the impression he was, and his chestnut hair was a riot of enviable curls. His armour was too light for my tastes, a cuirass and leather instead of proper plate or mail, but it was still better than the rapier he’d somehow been tricked into thinking was an acceptable battlefield weapon.

“Should I take it there’s no need to wait for an officer?” I asked.

“Commander Issawi decided it would be simpler to send us directly to you, Your Excellency,” Sapan said, offering a short bow.

The Proceran mirrored her perfectly but I barely paid attention to him. Issawi, she’d said, and not Spitter. The old commander was probably dead, I grimly realized, and if I remembered the ranks right his senior tribune was another Callowan so she was probably dead too. Our senior officers were dropping like flies, which smacked of Keter targeting them. Fucking Neshamah, he’d figured out our weakness compared to the Legions of Terror: the comparative lack of experienced officers.

“Then speak,” I said. “How go the other offensives?”

“Lord Hanno had taken his gate and is pushing towards the inner city, Your Excellency,” the Page proudly told me.

Meaning the Lycaonese had once more lived up to their reputation and pushed unflinchingly through the slaughter it’d take to get boots atop a gatehouse of Keter. Good. We’d gambled that they might, sending Hanno and the Kingfisher Prince there on top of a heroic band of five and the Witch of the Woods for magical muscle.

“The other gate?” I asked.

“The Dominion and the Clans were forced to retreat,” Sapan told me. “The Warlord decided casualties were too high and their foothold on the gatehouse too fragile to keep up the storm.”

Fuck, I thought. That meant there was only us coming from the southwest and the Procerans coming from the east of the city. We’d hoped that my army’s push would draw enough dead that Hakram and the Blood would be able to take the eastern gate, but that might have been too ambitious. It might be why we weren’t as badly drowned in soldiers as I thought we’d be, I mused. Neshamah might have decided to focus on keeping the third army out of his city instead of focusing on either us or the Proceran. If that was true, all those reinforcements were about to begin hammering at the Army of Callow’s positions soon. I forced myself to set the speculation aside.

Whether it was true or not didn’t matter, since the choice I had to make hadn’t changed: we were committing to an attack on the inner wall or not?

“How recent are your news about the Lycaonese offensive?” I asked.

“Half an hour, Your Excellency,” the Page told me. “I fought with mercenaries before being sent as a messenger.”

However learned his courtesies, he did not quite manage to hide the resentment in his tone. Would have preferred to stay with the push, huh. The Apprentice did not seem so burdened, I could not help but noticed, as befitting of someone who’d gone through the gruelling campaign in the Wasteland under my commands.

“Half an hour,” I muttered, drumming my fingers against the side of my leg. “And you say they were pushing deep?”

“They were storming barricades up the avenue when I left,” the young hero agreed.

That was the advantage of taking a gate instead of a breach like my army had: the Procerans had been on an avenue from the start. If it went well, I assessed, it was likely that Hanno and the Lycaonese would take a swing at the inner-city wall before my people did. That thought clinched the decision, because the same reason I was hesitating to commit to an attack – fear of attacking the inner wall alone and getting my teeth kicked in – was now also a reason to commit to that very same attack. It’d be the Procerans getting their teeth kicked in, if I left them to hang high and dry.

“Then there’s no room left for hesitation,” I said. “I need you two to carry word back to Prince Otto, assuming he still holds command of the Proceran van.”

“He does, Your Excellency,” Sapan assured me.

“Then tell him I’m taking a run at the inner wall,” I said, “and committing all my reserves to the push. I’ll see him when we’re both through.”

The Page looked split between irritation – at being made a messenger again, no doubt – and eagerness at being able to return to fight with his countrymen, but as far as I was concerned he was just the escort. The Apprentice nodded and I clapped her shoulder amicably before sending them both off. I didn’t offer them an escort. That was the point of using Named as messengers, after all: they could get through the undead-infested city without one. It felt like absurd luxury to used champions of the Gods as messenger pigeons, but if there was one place on Calernia that warranted the absurdity it was the Crown of the Dead. I sought more mundane messengers as well, to send word to Commander Issawi that she was to prepare for a push.

That, and to send for my personal standard and the people bearing it.

Akua returned not long after, what she’d been up to during her absence quite evident. She was riding what could generously be called a horse, at least in shape. It was a necromantic construct, made out of stripped parts from ghouls and larger monsters. Sloppy in some ways, I mused, since some muscles had clearly been melted together – a brute force method – and the sections that’d been sown together sported shining thread. An enchantment, not real thread, and so vulnerable to being dispelled. Still, I could only be impressed that she’d put together what looked like a leathery horse-shaped golem in what could only be half an hour. It was moving pretty well, too, its bone hooves clacking light against the stone.

“Expecting to need a horse?” I idly asked.

She cocked an eyebrow at me.

“The enemy up the avenue are in disarray,” Akua said. “Knowing you, you will want to strike while the iron is hot.”

She did know me, I thought with the usual mixture of pleasure and dread. Enough that a glance at what lay ahead had been enough to figure out what I intended, apparently.

“Can you reach the flying fortresses?” I asked. “I need to send word.”

“I already have,” she said, “but another was ahead of me.”

I blinked in surprise.

“Marshal Juniper has ordered the Old Mothers to move to support the push towards the inner wall and the rest to protect the Army of Callow’s flanks,” Akua amusedly said. “It seems I am not the only one who can see through you, dearest.”

Gods, Hellhound, I thought, still awed after all these years. Any report you get should be at least half an hour behind me and confused, on top of having a lesser read than I on what’s going on at the front. And still she’d been a step ahead of me. I closed my eye, sinking into Night to find Zombie and have a look through her senses, only to find that below the hippocorvid two banners flew. I jostled back into my own body, lips twitching as I corrected my estimate to Juniper of the Red Shields having been two steps ahead of me. I turned to glanced behind me, Zombie large black wings folding as she plunged down through the sky and landed on the stone behind me at a run, circling around me as legionaries hastily got out of her way. Further back, more of my soldiers were moving.

Parting to make way for the same people I’d sent for now knowing my marshal had already sent them out: banners high, the Order of Broken Bells came forth.

Cracked bronze bells on black flew by the Sword and Crown, under them the first order of knights raised since the Conquest advancing in good order. Horses and men barded in steel carved with hymns to the Heavens as my people had done for centuries, killing lances raised not yet lowered for the charge. There was not a man or woman among them whose armour was not scuffed and dented, who’d not had at least a horse killed under them. Grandmaster Brandon Talbot rode at their head, the raised visor revealing his strong jaw and neat black beard. The once-heir to Marchford had gone from my prisoner to one of the few nobles I actually liked – if not trusted – over the years and led his knights through many a battlefield in my name.

Too many, perhaps. The Order of Broken Bells now numbered eighteen hundred, a respectable number given the losses in the Wasteland and on the plains of the Ossuary, but that was a fragile thing. When the siege of Keter had begun, I’d given a permission to Talbot that I had denied him throughout my entire reign: he was to knight his squires as he wished, without regard to age or training. The Broken Bells fielded eighteen hundred knights because there were no longer squires in the order, and barely any spare horses left for that matter. The strength mustered today was the last they had to wield, and should it perish the riders of Vivienne’s own knightly order would be the last cavalry left in the kingdom.

The Army of Callow had fought too many battles, too many wars. Even after draining my kingdom dry of manpower as fee queens before me had dared, we were running out of war bodies to put in suits of armour – much less the likes of knight, costly to arm and train as they were.

“We come as called, Your Majesty,” Brandon Talbot greeted me.

I held out my hand and Zombie nuzzled it, rubbing her feathered cheeks against the gauntlet. I patted her until she purred, only then moving to hoist myself onto the saddle.

“I have work for you,” I said.

He glanced at the avenue, the dead gathering there in throngs of thousands and beginning to raise barricades. The nobleman spared a look for Akua as well before returning his gaze to me.

“To ride into the jaws of death,” Sir Brandon said, sounding rather pleased.

There was, I thought, such a lovely madness to my people sometimes. I rolled my shoulder, limbering my sword arm. I was getting cramps, the costs of not spending enough time on the training field these days.

“Momentum’s still on our side,” I said, “but we need to prevent the enemy from consolidating before the Third Army can begin its push. That means trampling…”

I trailed off, flicking a glance at the gathering horde.

“All of that, more or less,” I idly finished.

“An afternoon’s work,” one of the knights called out.

There was grim, satisfied laughter. I indulged them with a smile, because if they hadn’t earned the right to a few harsh boasts then who on Creation had? I caught Grandmaster Talbot’s eye.

“Do you remember the first time we met, Brandon?” I asked.

The bearded man smiled.

“I could forget my name, Your Majesty, and still remember that,” he said.

“You thought I was too young,” I teased.

“The world’s gotten older,” Brandon Talbot simply said. “So have we.”

True enough. Flakes of ash crusted at the edge of the banner first raised from a cell, the cracked bells on imperial black that I had chosen as much as a warning as an emblem. I felt the warm breath of the Beast against my cheek, just as I had that day.

“Do you regret it?” I suddenly asked. “That you knelt that day, struck your bargain.”

The brown-eyed man studied me for a long moment, his face grown hard to read.

“There were times I did,” the grandmaster admitted. “Lows and long nights, when the bodies piled too high.”

I did not dare interrupt, breath caught still in my throat.

“But here we are,” Brandon Talbot softly said, gesturing at the horror around us. “The end of our road, Catherine Foundling. Perhaps of all our roads.”

The knight smiled.

“It has been a long ride,” he said, “but I regret nothing, Queen of Callow.”

The breath I’d been choking on left my lips, ragged, and I offered a stilted nod back. Sometimes you didn’t know you’d wanted to hear something until after you’d heard it.

“Then come on,” I said, voice steadying as it rose. “All of you. It has been too long since the Dead King last heard the horns of the knights of Callow.”

My sword cleared the scabbard, rising to catch a glint of sunlight.

“Let us remind the Enemy,” I said, “why so many learned to fear the sound.”

I guided Zombie with my knees, leading her forward into the avenue. Talons scraped against the stone, her wings folded close to her side, as behind me men began to move. The banners flew high, catching wind that shook off the ash, and the knights of Callow sounded the old defiance. The horns sounded once, twice, thrice.

All knights charge, the call went, and charge we did.

It was like a clap of thunder, the sound of a wedge of heavy cavalry going through a shield wall.

I hacked down half-blindly, smashing open an iron helm as Zombie barreled through the undead and all around me heavy lances tore punched through shields and corpses alike. I hacked and hacked, like a farmer reaping wheat, until suddenly there was nothing but stone pavement before me and my mount let out a cacophonous caw. I led her forward, only slowing when knights began to catch up. Half of them had discarded broken lances, unsheathing swords to replace them.

“REDEMPTION IN STEEL,” Grandmaster Talbot shouted.

A hard cheer echoed him, and we gathered into a wedge again. Ahead of us, another shield wall was forming even as behind us the shattered remains of the thousand skeletons we’d just trampled into dust fled the avenue. The Third Army’s banner was on the move, I saw. The push was beginning, we needed to clear the way for it. The horns sounded again, and we began to advance at a trot. Akua pulled close to me, her necromantic mount keeping pace as she held her sword like someone who’d not used one in too long. The enemy brought a few spears out in front of the shield wall, maybe half a hundred, but it was not them my eye sought.

I felt sorcery at work, and soon found it: cabals of robed mages, skeletons with burning green eyes and not a speck of flesh left, stood at the back of the shield wall shaping eerie cubes of what looked like smoke.

Akua,” I shouted.

I heard her snarl out an incantation even as the Order of Broken Bells quickened, going from trot to gallop. We began to close the distance, the smoke cubes rising in the air even as Akua’s fingers traced runes in the air and tore through them, but it was not to be so simple. On the streets that flanked us on both sides I saw movement, creatures looking like pale white – the pale of foul flesh, of creatures from deep water all wet and shining – hounds rising from crouches to break into a run. There were hundreds of them, and with an angry hiss I pulled on Night. I scorched our left flank, the abominations fleeing the black fire, but those to the right got through.

They leap with unnatural agility, baring half a dozen mouths full of curved teeth, but that was not the nastiest turn. Those that were cut or pierced took the blows like butter, staying stuck. It was fat, I realized with dim horror. The fat of corpses, riddled with teeth and unleashed like hounds. Men and horses tumbled down where the abominations caught them, biting into our wedge, but moments later I could spare no more thought for it: thunder clapped as I slapped away a spear and Zombie trampled the shield wall, tearing into the enemy. I hacked and hacked, arms burning from the toil as my Name steadied my hand and whispered lovingly in my ear. We would win, it promised. We would get to the end.

The cubes of smoke were brought down on us, exploding into clouds that smelled of death, but though a handful of knights choked to death in their armour the worst of it was blown away by the burst of wind that Akua smashed into the enemy, blowing away soldiers as much as the smoke. The hole it made relieved pressure enough for the Order to finish breaking through, barrelling through the undead and continuing down the avenue. We slowed, formed up into a wedge again as I tossed fire behind us to keep the fat hounds away – they were vulnerable, a spark was all they needed to light up – and our eyes moved ahead. There the enemy had gathered up, dragging up chunks of wall to make a barricade as archers and javelinmen massed behind thick lines of skeletons.

And beyond them, I saw, it was worse. Three more large knots of enemy, getting larger and better dug in. Half a dozen smaller ones at least. How many knights were dead already? Too many, I thought, and it would only get worse as we tired and began to slow.

“REDEMPTION IN STEEL,” Grandmaster Talbot shouted.

They shouted it back and we broke into a trot, advancing unflinchingly. Curses shot out from the enemy formation but the knights laughed, the sorcery sliding off their armour like water off a duck’s back. Akua screamed an incantation, throwing at the enemy a swirling ball of darkness that exploded into drops. All of the undead they touched twitched and began to turn on each other, hacking away. The Order of Broken Bells cheered, cheered the deed of a woman they had hated an hour ago and would hate again an hour from now. There were hardly any lances left, all of them left in broken bodies, but the handful remaining were lowered as we broken into a gallop.

I watched the flanks, and my vigilance was not for naught: I caught the movement first. Ghouls that had crouched atop rooftops suddenly rose, leaping down and running towards us with howls, as something altogether more sinister rose behind them. They looked like great worms of bone, though the tail ended looking like a lizard’s and under their ‘neck’ two leathery, spindly arms ending in claws jutted out. It was the lungs that drew the eye, though, two bulging great sacks like a bullfrog’s stomach with the appearance of muscle that were pumping in air and swelling. Using the clawed arms to drag themselves into position atop the roofs, the creatures all turned to face us and unhinged their ‘heads’ to reveal teethless maws.

The spat clouds of some foul black gas at us, filling the air.

Akua incanted again as we tore through the ghouls in our way, hacking at the flesh, but they’d not been meant to win, only to slow us. Volleys of arrows fell in a thick rain, the gas drifted towards us on a lazy wind and the enemy mages began their rituals. I pulled deep on Night, ignoring the gas – Akua would have to take care of it – as Brand Talbot shouted for the knight to form up, to prepare a charge anew at the enemy ranks. It was turning sour on us, I realized, and… and a shadow was cast over us all. Wind screamed as the flying fortress approached and lightning began to fall in the enemy’s ranks. A heartbeat later, the bottom of the fortress let out a burning light that tore through half a dozen houses in a heartbeat.

And then ladders were lowered.

“Forward,” I shouted, “forward!”

We cut through the last of the ghouls as Akua blew black the gas, tightening ranks as we broke into a gallop again. An arrow slid off the side of my helm and another sunk into Zombie’s skull, which annoyed her more than anything else. The Order smoothly split into two wings, one for each opening in the enemy barricade, and we thundered through. I screamed myself hoarse, hacking away at a sea of skulls and rotten faces, hands and blades coming at me from all sides. From the corner of my eye I saw a scythe hit Akua’s armoured wrist, slapping her sword out of her fingers, and with a shout of anger I torched the Bind that’d dared. We pushed at the ranks of the enemy, the momentum of our aborted charge now gone, and knights began to drop.

But even as legionaries began to land on our side I found that the undead before me no longer bore swords, only bows and javelins and crossbows. I had reached the back.

“Almost through,” I shouted.

“Callow,” the shout came back. “Callow and the broken bells!”

But we were slowing, dying and I had begun to pull on Night again when a spell hit the middle of the enemy formation and crushed half a dozen soldiers with a projectile. No, I realized a heartbeat later, not a spell. High Marshal Nim, the Black Knight of Praes, rose from her crouch and swung her warhammer with a great cry.

Undead were scattered likes leaves in a storm.

And just like that, it began to turn around. I could feel it in my bones. The sky filled with thousands of tons of stone and arrogance and they gathered again, my ragged Order of Broken Bells. Spells fell on the dead like summer rain. Fire and lightning and frost, acid and darkness and smoke that moved and swallowed men. Wind blew up in geysers, sand heated almost to glass was thrown in sheets half a mile wide. And curses, curses of the likes Calernia had learned to fear: iron rusted and bent, flesh melted and bone turned to powder. Souls were ripped out of Binds and turned into streaks of weeping flame, skeletons exploded into shards. And worse, curses even Keter stood in fear of.

And as the mfuasa unleashed a millennium of learning on the enemy, the lords of ladies and Praes came down to fight.

The Legions of Terror were forming, steel ranks spreading out in every direction with my father’s cold ghost smiling through their eyes. Legion mages torched ghouls with methodical and concentrated volleys, sappers disappeared entire ranks of the enemy with sharpers. The heavies smashed through the enemy ranks like they were made of paste, regulars following behind: orcs locking shields with Taghreb and Soninke and Duni, the shadow of an empire dogging their footsteps. And yet it was not them I my eye was called to as the Order formed up again. It was the splendid few, the beautiful monsters in armours glittering of gold and jewel who stood out among drab and smoky Keter like a flock of birds of paradise in a gutter.

The nobles of the Wasteland, household troops standing around them like a fortress of steel, reminded the world why the Dread Empire of Praes had ruled Calernia from sea to sea.

Devils filled the sky, winged and shouting in the darktongue, as an empire’s worth of hidden vaults was emptied at the hosts of Keter. The air filled with fire and blood dripped from the sky, the wind itself turning red as the High Lord of Okoro rode it on a chariot and sowed burning seeds of fire like a farmer on the field. Storms roared in wrath as the High Lady of Kahtan unleashed the old spirits bound by her house, colossal things of ruin and wind striding the field. Ghouls fled before the unleashed bestiary of Aksum like whipped dogs, tides of fouled water swept hundreds as the High Lord of Nok commanded the waves and at the heart of them all Sargon Sahelian was laughing, baring his crooked smile like fangs.

He wielded thirteen pillars of stone large as towers, crushing enemies beneath them like a child hammering down at ants with a pestle.

But beyond them all, behind them all, the woman who had once been Dread Empress Malicia struck deeper still. For with the falling ash from the sky now fell paler motes, spread about by the fortresses. Still Waters, refined and turned into even more terrifying a weapon. Wherever legionaries fell, now they rose again with empty eyes as eights. Unflinching, obedient, unrelenting. And the enemy buckled as well, for the ritual lighting up within the fortresses were not only for the Praesi dead: they were also for Keter’s. Stealing dead from the King of Death was perhaps too much, but to shatter his hold? Oh, that they could do. Wherever enough of the compound fell, the dead went wild.

Turning on each other, maddened by wrath and despair as the behest of the last empress of Praes.

And we sat the saddle at the heart of it all, the worn survivors of the Order of Broken Bells. Redemption in steel, the cry went up, and we charged. We went through bone and ash, a ray of fire from a fortress opening a path. We cut through towering abominations that looked like the bones of giants trailing ribbons of flesh, shattering knees as the rope-like flesh tore men off horses and ripped them apart. We carved through apes of rotting flesh and the wriggling worms of spoiled blood they burst into, faceless horrors of sown flesh that oozed sickness.

The further we got the harsher the fight, skeletons bearing shells full of burning oil throwing themselves at us as broken bones rose together into drakes mad of soldiers’ remains and acid began to fall from the sky, burning at armour and searing flesh. But we got through, Merciless Gods. We smashed and hacked and died, until before us stood the heights of the inner wall and the iron gate barring the way past it. Enemies bristled atop the walls but Grandmaster Talbot shot forward, hammering at the gate thrice with the pommel of his sword, and I laughed myself hoarse. We’d fucking done it. Behind us, flanks covered by the Legions, the ranks of the Army of Callow approached.

We’d gotten them to the wall.

Chapter 59: Steel

“War is the greatest of alchemies. It takes men as can be found in any town in the world and makes them into heroes and monsters.”

– Extract from the prologue of the first volume of the “Annals of the League of Free Cities”, by famed historian Shapash the Ashuran

The skeleton was decked in bronze, the scales of the armour pristine and the strange horned helmet it sported was freshly polished – as well as open faced. I closed the distance so the swing of its axe would pass behind me, rasping down the Mantle of Woe without even cutting cloth, and smashed the pommel of my sword into the skull. One blow shattered the jaw, a second the nose and the third ripped the head right off the spine.

“Form up,” I shouted. “Seventh Company, do I need to gently hold your fucking hand before you put those shields locked?”

“Yes please,” a woman’s voice shouted back.

I snorted, getting a glimpse of a tall Soninke flashing pale teeth at me before her lieutenant slapped the back of her helm. The seventh company heeded my order, though, echoed as it was by the shouts of a dozen angry sergeants. With the seventh, the twelfth and the fourth forming up on our left flank we should be good to push further up. Their shield walls blocked the streets on that side, though at the moment they didn’t have anyone to face down. My hand was still smoking from my last use of Night collapsing a row of the houses between those streets, helped along by every mage we could scrape together. We’d wanted to leave them up, use them to keep the dead herded when they showed up, but it’d been too much of a risk.

After the fourth time a supposedly clear house was revealed to have had ghouls hidden somewhere in hit that then leapt from the roof straight at a mage to die tearing the throat out, I’d decided to stay on the safe side. The houses had been almost absurdly easy to bring down, we’d found, which had the back of my neck pricking. That did not strike me as an accident. Satisfied with the seventh company’s formation, I tore my gaze away from them and turned to the tall orc lieutenant that’d been waiting patiently on me as I shouted.

“I’m listening,” I said.

“Ma’am,” he began, “we-”

He was interrupted by a horrific scream as a hellish burst of red light bled all over the clouds above us, a distorted ring of magic burning with runes flickering open a dozen blocks ahead of us. A misshapen horror dropped through, too-small wings looking like rotted bone slowing the descent of a creature with distended scaled belly with too-long arms ending in massive claws. The horror dropped down out of sight, still letting out those soul-rending shrieks. The lieutenant drily swallowed. I clapped his shoulder.

“Cheer up, lieutenant,” I said. “Sure, that was one of the foulest abominations either of us has ever seen but for once the damned fucking thing’s one our side.”

The flying fortress hovering above that part of the city, raining down spells and stones, made that pretty clear. The Praesi were tossing devils into the mess ahead of my army like a fool trying to buy a wish at a fountain, which was both encouraging and not: much as I was happy they were softening up the opposition, I did have to wonder how bad it must be for this to be the seventh time they were burning a greater devil contract.

“Hungry Gods,” the orc got out, “I guess that’s something to be thankful for. Fuck of a day if-”

His face turned anguished, pulling a fresh cut on the side of his nose, when he realized who he’d just been cursing with.

“-ma’am,” he hastily added, then saluted for good measure. “The front is stalling, ma’am, Commander Spitter requests that you come help break the stalemate.”

I nodded.

“Tell him I’m on my way,” I said. “The flanks are set up, we need to begin pushing into the city.”

The avenue we so badly needed to get to was straight ahead, by memory, and I’d spent so many hours looking at maps of Keter that I could see the layout of the city when I closed my eyes.

It had been millennia since the fall of Sephirah and the living ceased to stay within the walls – save for a few hundred servants deep in the heart of the city – but though the Dead King had had worked his horror on all that lay within the walls there were still traces of the city that once was. I’d seen in the Arcadian echoes that Keter had been raised on a pair of hills by a river, and though the water was long gone the city still echoed of it. The Crown of the Dead was built upwards, the bottom of it beginning at the foot of its forty-yards high walls and rolling up to the raised plateau where the two hills had once stood.

There the five palaces of Keter awaited us, and the Hellgate whose taking would be our victory.

The inside of the city was a maze whose layout changed according to the Dead King’s whims, streets and ‘houses’ – most of them empty, used only to store the dead and their arms away from weather so they would not rust and decay – raised and demolished according to arcane designs, but a handful of parts had remained unmoving through all the crusades. Most important of them was a set of six large avenues crisscrossing the city, the largest of which went through north to south and had been built over the now-dry riverbed of the river that had attracted people to live here long ago. For our push into the city to have a change of getting anywhere, we needed to get onto one of those avenues.

The rest of Keter was a playground of death, and though those avenues were sure to be trapped and heavily defended at the end of the day they were the one part of the city that Neshamah couldn’t actually destroy while defending his capital: he needed the damned avenues to move his soldiers around. He could use the smaller streets, sure, but them being a maze was a double-edged sword and they also happened to be narrow. Meaning not a lot of soldiers could squeeze through and given that the Dead King’s great advantage was numbers that was a harsh handicap when tangling with the Army of Callow. We’d earned our reputation as the finest foot on Calernia the hard way.

Soldiers were milling about in a semblance of good order, lines and companies shifting to anchor our flanks or press at the front while we expanded on all sides to make room for the troops continuing to cross. I winced as I saw a ballista bolt from somewhere to the northwest scythe through a few of my soldiers, killing or toppling them to a more horrible death. Neshamah was beginning to move siege engines in position at the top of the still-standing walls on both our flanks, which was going to be a problem. We’d either need to take the walls to silence them, spreading out further than I’d like, or keep our mages lines focused on the defence until the soldiers had crossed. Juniper’s problem, I reminded myself. She’d figure something out. I shook myself out of the thoughts and followed a line of regulars towards the front, through melted stone gone cool and buildings shredded by the Ram.

Beyond the grounds glassed by the Light the shattered buildings rose into a ragged slope of collapsed walls and loose stones, which we climbed in haste as arrows fell in sparse rain from a long distance. Arcing shots, likely fired blindly from behind enemy lines at a place they knew would force us to lower shields for balance. Let it not be said that the Dead King’s commanders were unskilled, however empty and brutally efficient a kind of skill it might be. Climbing down the slow onto a paved street, I saw exactly what Commander Spitter had needed me for. After crossing the bridges we’d swept through the enemy defences and then another three city blocks beyond that as the dead tried to put together a shield wall to check our advance, but it’d not been enough.

Keter had recovered from the surprise two blocks further in, though. A barricade was encircling our position, as I blinked in astonishment at the sight of it – it’d not existed a quarter hour ago – I realized exactly why those houses on our flanks had been so easy to collapse.

Shit,” I muttered.

Keter was possible to fortify in a way that no other city in the world was, when it came down to it. Even the great fortresses of Calernia had to make concessions to habitability, but what did the Crown of the Dead care for that? There were no living souls within the walls and so the city made solely to be held against invaders, massive armies led by heroes. And though we’d avoided the worst of the defences by collapsing a wall instead of taking one of the gates, we’d known that was not a state of affairs that was going to last. Nor had it. That impossible barricade that had encircled our vanguard, leaving only one way through in a narrow street, had not been assembled – it had been collapsed. Undead had smashed the houses, collapsing them in a way that blocked streets as well.

I threw up an eye of Night as high as I could and cursed again at what I saw. Like industrious ants, skeletons were going around collapsing houses all around our beachhead to encircle it in a loose ring. And where a later of barricade had already been made, they went about adding a second. They’re hemming us in, I thought. If we don’t break through quick enough, they’ll just bottle us here and shoot us like fish in a barrel. And like all the finest trap did, they’d left us with a visible way out so we’d commit: that narrow street in front of our vanguard, packed so tightly with undead they could barely move. A funnel for us to charge down and die in. I began elbowing my way forward, though after the first few times my soldiers saw who I was and parted their ranks instead.

“Shield wall,” I shouted. “Get those fucking shields up before you all get shot!”

Officers echoed me across the army, our lines grown ragged from the breakthrough steadying just as the first undead crossbows and javelinmen began lining up atop the barricade. We’d taken the Dead King aback with our charge, but now he’d forcefully stabilized his line with the collapsed houses and he was setting up another killing field: if those barricades weren’t about to be sprouting a forest’s worth of range troops, I’d eat my crown. I particularly did not like the look of the javelins: those went right through shields and plate when thrown right, which the skeletons were sure to. It wasn’t the thought that we couldn’t smash our way through that had me worried, mind you. We could and goddamn would. It was the other ninety times we’d have to do it before we got anywhere near a victory. Was the Dead King already ordering a second ring of barricades to be collapsed around us, or was he going to wait a bit more?

Either way, I grimly thought, the only way we weren’t going to be drowned in street-by-street fighting was by moving too quickly for him to be able to keep us bottled up. And the only way for that was to break through another fourteen blocks straight ahead, to reach one of the five central avenues of Keter. I knew better than to think every step in direction wasn’t going to sprout a fresh nightmare in need of putting down. Thankfully, I was due the presence of some people who knew a thing or two about doing that. I swung my sword at a knot of skeleton crossbowmen, blowing them off the rampart as air exploded in front of them, and ran a hand down the chord of a story. One was almost there.

I felt out the outcome a heartbeat before the sequence of it could begin, and immediately pulled on Night. A large beorn came into sight, having climbed a large tower to the east, and after a roar it leapt. I could see the trajectory before it had even begun to move. A smooth arc down, straight into the company of heavies from the Third that was hammering at the enemy shield wall trying to keep us pinned in the avenue. And it might have landed, if not for the silhouette that ran up a half-collapsed house without breaking stride before leaping up, shining with blindingly bright Light. I caught a glimpse of a greatsword being swung as the beorn was carved through from head to toe and somewhere behind me I felt the twin shiver of an aspect being used and magic blooming: a gale of wind caught the halves of the beorn and the roiling skeletons within, tossing them back into the enemy ranks.

A heartbeat later the Blade of Mercy landed on his feet and the Rogue Sorcerer ended his spell. A heartbeat after that, what looked like a horse-sized worm made entirely out of muscles and fingerbones popped out from behind a tower to the west and spat a cloud of poison at that same company of heavies.

Fear, relief, horror returned. The Dead King’s favourite play.

“None of that,” I said, clicking my tongue, and released the Night.

A spinning sphere swallowed the cloud before contracting and exploding into a ball of poisonous flame, which a flick of my wrist sent right back at the bloody horror. It slithered into the tower for cover but not quite quick enough, its bottom half incinerated as the roof of the building collapsed atop it. Since Roland and the Blade of Mercy were here, she should be somewhere – I frowned, then turned around and hit the space right behind me with the flat of my sword. The Painted Knife let out a yelp, cold steel slapping her cheek, and I spared a glare as she backpedalled.

“How many times am I going to have to tell you you’re not bloody invisible, Kallia?” I said.

“At least you didn’t drop me down a tower this time,” the Painted Knife reproachfully replied.

“Day’s young,” I grunted, “and if you keep trying to sneak up on me during battle I might reconsider.”

I was completely serious, which the heroine seemed to pick up on.

“I hear your words, Black Queen,” she assured me.

I hummed, entirely unconvinced. I was pretty sure this had turned into one of those headache-inducing Levant honour things for her, which meant I was going to have to keep breaking her legs until she decided not even the bragging rights were worth that amount of pain.

“Your last two?” I asked.

“They should be-”

There was a great cracking sound to my left and I immediately turned, eye going straight to the unusual sight of someone single-handedly smashing their way through a barricade that was almost entirely stone with little more than a war hammer. A woman in bright red plate – Gods, the sight of it had every inch of me offended, that was just asking to get shot – with a helmet forged to look like a grinning devil and weapons strapped on her back was pulverising chunks of stone with every swing. And though she was almost seven feet tall and broad as a barn door, it wasn’t muscles alone that let the Red Knight shatter stone like it was overripe cantaloupes.

She wasn’t good at much aside from breaking shit, but that much she was really good that.

The villainess might still have taken a few javelins in the neck for her troubles courtesy of the undead above, though, if not for the fact that they were currently occupied with an enthusiastically murderous wolf the size of a small barn. Where the Hells the Skinchanger had actually found a wolf that large in Lycaonese lands was a mystery to me, much less killed and skinned it for use, but I wasn’t going to argue with the shapes the woman had chosen to take up: they were a pretty repertoire of clawed and fanged nightmares, even the fucking birds. I didn’t know why the eagle-thing she sometimes turned into had horns, of all things, but apparently they were both amour-piercing and poisonous so why the Hells not?

A someone who had ridden a flying horse for several years, I had a healthy appreciation for aerial impalements.

“There,” I completed for the Painted Knife. “So I see.”

She looked faintly embarrassed. So she hadn’t actually ordered the Red Knight to make that breach, huh. I sympathized. Even I found the villainess difficult to deal with, and unlike Kallia my authority was bolstered by the fact that I’d once brought down a four-story tower on the Red Knight’s head just to make a point. Hadn’t actually done much to her, which was why to this day I was pretty sure to kill her I’d need a pool of acid of some sort. Fortunately, she was so infuriatingly terrible a person I was also pretty sure I could get the Concocter to brew said acid for free.

“A second breach will hasten our advance,” I continued. “But you need to get your band ready after we punch through.”

A steady stare met mine.

“The Scourges are coming,” the Painted Knife said.

“At least one,” I agreed. “And it’ll be coming with lesser Revenants to use as meat shields.”

The Dead King wasn’t going to commit his finest remaining blades to fights to the – second – death so early in the battle, but he’d be looking to pick up a few kills among our Named if he could. Thin the herd, so to speak, and throw Revenant bodies in the way to get his Scourges out if we got too close to taking a scalp. I had every intention of snuffing out one of his last heavy hitters if the occasion arose, mind you, and Hanno should be fighting at one of the gates with the same intention. The trouble, we both knew, was that invaders past a certain point there was no choice but to fight on the Hidden Horror’s terms.

Not something that tended to go well for us, as a rule.

“We will be ready,” the Painted Knife swore, then hesitated.

I cocked an eyebrow.

“Might you keep the Rogue Sorcerer by your side?” she asked. “Skilled as he is, we move quicker without him and he is most useful from the back.”

“I’ll drag him along,” I agreed.

Roland was one of those eminently reasonable mages that actually wore armour, so I had no issue bringing him into a battlefield. Besides, for a spellcaster the Alamans was actually ridiculously difficult to kill: the amount of protective artifacts he wore on him at all times was impressive paranoid even by Wasteland standards.

“Good hunting,” I said, offering my arm.

“And you, Warden,” the Painted Knife replied, clasping it.

I waited for Roland, and gentlemen that he was he didn’t make it long. Some part of me was always surprised that the Rogue Sorcerer wasn’t taller, I thought. It must have been the long leather coat over the chain mail, covered with pockets full of artefacts. Though the dark-haired man usually went without a helmet, this once he’d made an exception and put on a plaint bassinet that pressed his curls against his head. He had a short wand painted blue in hand, which to my senses reeked of the fae. Huh, I’d never seen him with that one before.

“Catherine,” he greeted me, glancing at the melee ahead. “I’m grieved we only came so late.”

“Named wouldn’t have been useful on the bridges,” I admitted. “It would have been handing Revenants to the opposition.”

Not entirely true, but the few Named that would have made a difference had been needed elsewhere. I was already here, after all, and insisting the Army of Callow should also have the services of the Witch of the Woods on top of mine would have been a hard sell.

“Then we’ll make up for the absence it now,” Roland firmly said. “Where do you need me?”

I couldn’t help but smile. He’d been one of the first heroes to grow on me for a reason.

“You’re with me,” I said, “and we’re going into the thick of it.”

“Ah, certain death,” he drily replied. “How I missed working with you, Warden.”

“Don’t be so gloomy,” I chided. “It’s only mostly certain death.”

“That would be our finest odds in quite a while, then,” he snorted.

He gallantly offered me his arm to walk, which was a nice thought but still got him elbowed in the ribs. It was a battlefield, not a garden stroll. Alamans, Merciless Gods. Even at the bloody end of the world. The closest we got to the front, the harder it got to move: the press of soldiers tightened, kept on tightening until it squeezed into the sole street that had been the sole way out of the barricades. Now there was another opening, I thought, but the pressure would not be relieved for some time yet. Maybe thirty feet ahead of us I saw the shield walls hammering at each other, the dead packed tight as my heavies tried to break through them. I leaned closer to Roland.

“Can you clear that?” I asked, gesturing in the melee’s direction.

“Given time to cast,” the Rogue Sorcerer replied. “Why?”

“Because unless I’m mistaken,” I murmured, “we’re about to ambushed. I need you to draw attention.”

He sent me a pained look. I stared back, unmoved, until he conceded with a sigh.

“Bait it is,” Roland said. “Is Kallia near?”

I nodded. The Painted Knife, for all that her team had some rather straightforward brawlers, was still an assassin at heart. She was waiting too. The Rogue Sorcerer rolled his shoulder.

“Then let’s get to it,” the hero said.

I took a step back, pulling on Night, and let if fall over me like a veil. I tore out a sliver and shaped it into an eye, tossing it up in the sky, and as I closed my eye of flesh I saw through the other. The Red Knight’s breach had let the companies there turn the tables. Climbing through the mess was hard and there were corpses all over the slope, but now my legionaries had climbed atop the barricade and were tearing into the crossbowmen and javelineers. Ahead of me I looked past the brutal melee in the street, seeing how skeletons were pouring in from all adjoining streets to pack this one so tight they could barely move. Yet it was the houses I looked at closest, the tiled stone roofs. I couldn’t see a Revenant yet, but that hardly meant there were none.

Ahead of me, the Rogue Sorcerer let out a hoarse shout and pointed an ornate casting road at the sky: flames poured out like a flock of birds, bright and of many colours.

I could not spare a longer look than that, because the enemy were moving. Three Revenants on a rooftop that’d been empty until an arrow went flying – my heart clenched for a moment but the archer was in bright green leathers, so not the Hawk – and an illusion broke. I kept my eye on them even as what must be a mage Revenant, given that otherwise the swirling colours of those robes would be some sort of a crime, raised an ornate golden staff and pulled an illusion on them again. I’d had a heartbeat to look at the third, finding good plate and a large shield that did not belong to any of the Scourge. Whichever was there they were still lying in wait, so I held back as well.

Around me soldiers began to press forward, parting around my position without knowing why, and I made a note that whatever it was Roland had used it had seemingly worked.

The three Revenants were under illusion again but now that I knew what to look for I could taste the subtle power in the air and follow their position. The Painted Knife’s band went about it another way: a heartbeat later a hawk dropped down on the rooftop, turning into a large hound as it landed, and immediately began sniffing the air. Knowing their position was blown, the Revenants engaged: the illusion went down, an arrow was loosed at the Skinchanger – which she turned into a bear to shrug off – and the sword and board undead doubled back to attack our scout Named. A tactical mistake, I thought as the Painted Knife appeared behind their mage and hacked through the hand holding the staff. A heartbeat later the Blade of Mercy was there as well, landing in a flash of Light that tore a hole through the roof and forced him to roll forward so he wouldn’t drop through.

It wasn’t a done deal, I thought as I watched them. The mage Revenant’s hand kept wielding the staff even when cut off and the Blade of Mercy backed off in surprise when the sword and board undead took on his greatsword without batting an eye, but the band of Named had the advantage. Which meant we were soon due… Darkness fell over the roof and I cursed. I’d been too much to hope that being buried under most of Hainaut had been enough to kill off the Mantle, I supposed. At least I got to find out where she was, which happened to be a rooftop far to my left. Standing besides what had to be the sloppiest Revenant I’d ever seen: barely more than ragged skin and bones, with floppy hair and loose farmers’ clothes. Not a weapon in sight and he looked pretty confused.

He couldn’t have been more obviously dangerous if the word had been branded on his fucking forehead.

“All right,” I grunted. “My turn.”

The setup ought to work. I released the Night hiding me and shaped it into solid shadows instead, coiling around me and then exploding outwards in tendrils that I used like great legs. Shouts of surprise came from my legionaries below as I stepped over them and over the barricade, skeletons hacking away at the shadow limbs harmlessly. A streak of magic whizzed my way but I adjusted my position absent-mindedly to let it go wide, eye still on the Mantle. She pointed her great steel mace towards me, her armoured silhouette cast in the half-light allow through by the clouds, and the world shivered from the strength of the curse that shot out. She had, unfortunately for her, fallen prey to the story I’d prepared.

 A woman decked in red steel leapt up in the way of the curse, laughing, and the world shivered again.

I’m not the fifth in their band, I thought, you struck too early. I smiled down at the Scourge even as I guided myself to land on the rooftop closest to the Mantle’s. The Red Knight joined me up there, her armour glimmering deeper red from the curse she had been able to Devour. She spat to the side, reaching at her back and taking up a broadsword.

“Weak,” the Red Knight sneered. “Your hatred is weak. I’ll show you what a real Named is like, you petty armoured bitch.”

I rolled my shoulder, limping up to her side as the Mantle pivoted to face us and the Revenant at her side looked at us with befuddlement. I reached out with my Name, tried to get a read on what he could do, but all I got was a vague sense of bad luck. And yet I smiled, as I felt a ripple behind me and to our side the Mantle’s darkness suddenly vanished. Roland’s Confiscate worked on the Mantle’s curses, then. Good to know.

“Keep her busy,” I told the Red Knight, preparing to leap to the other roof. “But don’t take risks. We can afford to wait until the others are-”

Instinct pulled at me and I obeyed, taking a step to the side. It saved my life. I felt a raging current of power suddenly unleashed from below and the world exploded. I tumbled down through heated shards of what had been tiles a moment ago, shielding my eyes, as a curse passed close enough to rustle the Mantle of Woe. I hit the ground a moment after, swallowing a scream as I landed on my bad leg, but I stood through the pain to face a simple oaken staff being pointed towards me. A ragged figure in faded grey robes, eyes lifeless and long black hair tumbling down his back, stood before me inside a circle of wards. The Tumult, greatest spellcaster in the Dead King’s service, began to incant. Instinct pulled at me again, the warning of certain death, but before I could heed it and move a cacophonous noise drowned out everything else and the ground shuddered.

The wall blew up a heartbeat later, spraying shards everywhere as the flying fortress crushed three city blocks and I had to pull Night to be just so the shockwave wouldn’t splatter me all over the walls. The Tumult was not so lucky, his wards allowing through no harm but just enough wind that he was smacked flat against his own magic shield.  Breathing out raggedly I released the Night, wiping dust out of my eyes, and found laughter bubbling out of my throat as someone floated down to the ground to stand between me and the Scourge. Akua Sahelian, armoured from head to toe and somehow still the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, stared down the undead mage

“This one you can leave to me, darling,” she drawled. “We never did finish our little chat in Hainaut.”

In the distance I heard hooves, followed by war cries in Mthethwa, and finally I let the laugh free.

Time to collect some scalps.