\hypertarget{heroic-interlude-prise-au-fer}{%
\chapter*{Heroic Interlude -- Prise au
Fer}\label{heroic-interlude-prise-au-fer}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{heroic-interlude-prise-au-fer}} \chaptermark{Heroic Interlude -- Prise au Fer}

\epigraph{``There is nowhere angels fear to tread.''}{Callowan proverb}



William's mother had been a woman of some education, a knight's
daughter. His father had only barely known how to read and always deeply
distrusted any writing but the Book of All Things, which was said to
have been spoken to the minds of mortal men by the Gods. It had been his
mother who'd taught him his numbers and letters, and she'd been the one
to keep his attention on the lessons by weaving stories from ancient
Callowan rulers into them. The Queen of Blades had been the kind of
vivid story that fascinated, never once defeated in battle though her
invasion of Daoine had failed. So had the story of Eleanor Fairfax, the
knight turned founder of the Fairfax dynasty who'd risen in rebellion
against Triumphant when the Dread Empress had ruled over the entire
continent. Now, though, as he walked the streets of Liesse alone and the
moon was high in the sky, it was a king's words he remembered. So had
spoken Jehan the Wise: ``Evil is cruel, and so men think it follows that
Good is kind. This is a mistake, my son. Though fire is warm and in the
dark of night we huddle around it, it also \emph{burns.''}

This had unsettled him, as a child. Jehan had been Named, the Good King.
A hero. Why be so wary of the very power he wielded? He understood now.
Had ever since he'd gone into the wilderness half-mad and been presented
with the face of Contrition. He'd seen the searing fires and felt them
scour his soul clear. There were sorceries in the East -- and even in
some of the Free Cities -- that could make a slave of a man. There were
some who would compare standing in the presence of a Hashmallim to such
a thing, but that was a fundamental misunderstanding of the thing.
William had seen his life through their eyes. Every sin, every wrong,
every petty unthinking cruelty. All of it without the veil of lies
everyone cloaked themselves in without even realizing it. The lies of
well-meaning and wilfully chosen ignorance. It had stripped William of
his delusions and allowed him to see what he truly was.

Just a man, and not a particularly Good one.

He'd gone through those fires and come out a sword of the Heavens,
handed a single feather from the wing of Contrition to see its will done
upon Creation. Had they known, even then? Perhaps they had. Angels saw
deeper into the nature of the world than mortals could, beyond
artificial constructs like time. There was, to them, no difference
between the first step of a journey and the last. That was what really
changed people, when they met angels. The realization that in the end
they were nothing but an assembly of sins. Choirs helped you accept this
truth differently. Those touched by Compassion never took another life
again, not even those of the worst monsters in Creation. Those touched
by Mercy spent their days alleviating suffering wherever they went.
Those touched by Judgement\ldots{} did not survive the experience,
should they be found wanting. Contrition was different from the others,
in a sense.

The Hashmallim had never once forced anyone to take up the sword to
fight Evil, but then they'd never once had to ask. Once you saw the
truth of yourself and then then truth of Creation, what was left but to
take arms? The only path to contrition was to leave the world a better
place than you'd found it -- and how could lesser be solutions be
tolerated when so large a part of Calernia was still under the yoke of
the Gods Below?

Nine crusades had been waged, all in all. Of those, five had been led by
heroes aligned to the Choir of Contrition. Sometimes it amused William
that the red cross that was the mark of all crusaders had been a symbol
provided by the Dread Empire. Triumphant, in all her cruel madness, had
been fond of having children crucify their own parents as a sign of
obeisance. She'd paid for it eventually, when a Duchess of Daoine who'd
consigned her own father to the cross met with an idealistic young
knight named Eleanor Fairfax. Eleanor had been touched by Contrition,
and when she rose in rebellion all of the continent gathered behind her
banner and carried it all the way to the foot of the Tower. In the
beginning only the Duchess' soldiers had worn the cross, but symbols
spread -- by the time Triumphant's empire was pulled down on her head
every man and woman in that army had a scrap of red cloth sown on their
clothes. Or branded into their skin.

And so the First Crusade came to an end. The Second came when the Praesi
rose in revolt against the crusader kingdoms their realm had been
divided into, and they were crushed into dust. When the Wastelanders
rose the second time, though, they were led by the man who would become
Dread Emperor Terribilis II. The Third Crusade ended in disaster and the
end of the crusader nations -- to further compound the disgrace, a
weakened Callow was occupied by Procer in its wake. The Fourth Crusade,
a last-ditch attempt to reclaim Praes, was drowned in such a sea of
blood by Terribilis that never again was a crusade to turn East. After
that the four crusades that followed were led by the hand of Contrition.
Failures, all of them, for they were fighting the Dead King and his
realm of horrors, a monster who called even devils to heel. Of those it
was the Seventh Crusade that William found important, for as far as he
knew it was the only time in the history of Calernia a Hashmallim had
come into Creation.

Contrition had touched Salia, the capital of the Principate of Procer,
and every soul inside had taken the cross -- including the First Prince
of the time. The rest of the continent had gathered behind that holy
host, and for a time it seemed the endless hordes of the dead would
finally run out. Siege was laid to Keter, the seat of the Dead King and
ancient capital of his derelict kingdom. They'd lost, in the end. The
Dead King has poisoned the land and called forth infernal hosts until
there was nothing left standing in front of him but bones. But they'd
come \emph{close.} Liesse was smaller than Salia, only a hundred
thousand people lived within the walls, but it was not the Kingdom of
the Dead it would fight. Malicia was no great warlord, not the way
Terribilis had been, and her greatest general was getting old. Sooner or
later, a hero would finally manage to slay the Black Knight.

The First Prince of Procer was plotting a Tenth Crusade, holed up in her
capital, and William would give it to her. But it would not be a
Proceran enterprise, and it would not end with Callow as her
protectorate. The rest of Calernia would not stand for that sin being
committed a second time. The Lone Swordsman came upon the shores of the
Hengest lake and looked up at the stars, breathing out slowly. There
were small docks with fishing boats further down the waterside but that
would not take him where he was headed. Every Callowan child knew there
was a holy place somewhere in the waters, an island said to be untouched
by war and the depredations of time alike. An island, it was said, but
none could be seen from the city. Boots in the sand, William watched the
shining waters and waited.

The white ship came, a small thing rowboat without any trace of an oar.
It did not float so much as glide, the swan-shaped prow and stern almost
lifelike. It beached in front of him and without a word William climbed
on board, sitting on the only seat. It had been a clear night out but
the ship led them into mist. How long he sat there alone with only the
dark waters and the mist for company, he could not say. He'd been into
Arcadia Resplendent, where time ran to a different stream than in
Creation, but this was different. Whatever lay ahead was not in another
realm, just a part of this one mortals were not lightly given access to.
The Penitent's Blade, always at his hip, was warm to the touch. It felt
the proximity of its likeness. An angel had died in the waters of the
Hengest, the legend went. He would soon find out the truth of that. He
didn't see the island until they were almost upon it, to his surprise.
Pale sands formed a perfect circle in the water, entirely bare for a
small chapel of roughly hewn stone.

William had been to Laure before and seen its beautiful cathedrals. He'd
seen the many basilicas of the south, for that matter, and the
outrageous wealth and splendour of Salia -- capital of the mightiest
nation on Calernia. For all that, the sight of that small chapel brought
out\ldots{} something in him. A sense of wonder. There were no grand
materials or sculptures: it was, in truth, little more than a stone
house with a pointed ceiling and a tower. The ship beached on the sands
in perfect silence and the Lone Swordsman stepped onto the shore. There
was, he now saw, no bell in the tower. Yet there was an empty space for
one, a bar of ancient wood to hang it from. It was the first
imperfection he'd glimpsed here, and he almost frowned at the sight.
Dismissing the thought, he strode inside through the open door.

There were seven rows of benches on each side, little more than bare
slabs of stone. No murals on the walls of paintings on the ceiling. Even
the window in the back was without stained glass, revealing only endless
waters blanked by swirling mists. For all that, he felt a little awed.
The chapel felt unearthly, more than even Arcadia had. It was too real.
The stone was the very essence of stone, the air the very essence of
air: the only intruder here was him, a living imperfection in an
otherwise flawless scene. Beyond the benches lay a small altar of pale
stone, with a single mark on it. A sigil. It was a sinuous, complicated
thing but his mind could not help but perceive it as the number three,
in Miezan numerals. The Penitent's Blade was so warm it almost burned
his fingers when he touched the handle.

``You know what happens next, don't you?''

Almorava's voice was soft, almost kind. He was not surprised she'd
turned up, though he glanced in her direction nonetheless. She was
seated to his right, for once without a bottle in hand. Even she would
not desecrate this place with idle drinking.

``The sword goes into the stone,'' he said. ``I may not know stories the
way you do, but I know that.''

He'd also stay in prayer until dawn. There would be exactly seven hours
left before the sun rose, no matter when he started praying. These
things saw themselves into being.

``I wonder what the last hero though, when they called on Contrition,''
he said quietly. ``If they had doubts, too.''

``She didn't,'' Almorava replied. ``The White Knight was in Salia, when
the Dead King's offer came. Five hundred children every year for peace
on the borders. That the First Prince even considered it had her in such
disgust she did it that very same night.''

He didn't ask how she knew that. He wasn't sure he'd liked the answer.
Heroes were bound to the lifespan of a mortal, unlike villains, but the
Wandering Bard had always known too much about things she seemed much
too young to ever have witnessed with her own eyes. Perhaps it was part
of her Name. \emph{Perhaps it is something else entirely.}

``A better woman than me, then,'' William said. ``I know what I will be
putting them through. It is not a gentle thing.''

``Good doesn't have to be nice,'' Almorava murmured. ``Just righteous.''

The Lone Swordsman remained standing, looking at the pale stone and the
sigil on it.

``She could take the Fifteenth out of range,'' he finally said.
``Forty-nine hours is more than enough time.''

``She won't, though,'' the Bard replied. ``That's not her nature. She's
the very worst kind of villain, you see -- the kind who thinks they're
doing the right thing. In that sense, she's even more dangerous than her
teacher. He doesn't labour under that impression.''

``And us?'' he asked. ``Are we also just clutching a delusion? I had a
talk with Thief, before coming here. She told me she's staying for the
siege, but that she'll be leaving Callow afterwards.''

Some vestige of amusement quirked his lips.

``She was, I believe, quite disgusted with me.''

``Thief sees Creation through the lens of her Name,'' Almorava said.
``That allows her more clarity than you'd think, but people with her
kind of Role are not meant to look at a broader picture. She fights what
she perceives as injustice wherever she sees it, but she'll never root
out the causes.''

The same, he thought, could be said of so many heroes. Theirs was a
losing fight, from the onset. You could bring down the mighty who abused
their power, turn back the great tides of Evil that would sweep over
mankind, but how could a single person change the world? There was a
reason for that, he believed. The Heavens had put the Fate of mankind in
the hands of mankind, not the Named. Heroes, given extraordinary
abilities, were meant to deal with extraordinary threats. Not to take
the reins of the world.

``There are no root causes,'' he said tiredly. ``Or only one, if you
prefer. People are people, with all the flaws that come with that. We
strive to do Good and fall short, because we're not meant for
perfection. Sometimes I wonder if it's all just a great jest at our
expense, Almorava. If they placed a better world just out of our reach
so that they can watch us try and fail to touch it.''

The Bard hummed. ``Did you know it's a matter of some debate among the
priests of the House of Light whether or not Evil is inherent to the
soul?''

William was Liessen: of course he knew that. Even after the Conquest the
brothers and sisters were everywhere in the south of Callow, and their
public debates on theological matters were considered a good show in
most villages. People actually travelled to witness famous debaters at
work. There was a great deal of betting involved, which was a lot less
pious, but people tended to remember the arguments made even after money
changed hands.

``Are you about to impart some great revelation onto me?'' he asked.
``That debate has been raging for as long as the House has stood, and
some say the priests who built it were arguing as they lay the stones.''

``I think it's a very interesting question, when you look at the current
breed of villains we're dealing with,'' the Bard said. ``There's only
three that matter: the Empress, the Knight and the Squire.''

Almorava raised a finger.

``Malicia has made a point of of improving the lot of common Callowans
whenever she can. Purely out of self-interest, but she does it
nonetheless.''

She raised a second finger.

``The Big Guy is stricter about enforcing those laws of the old kingdom
he kept than the Fairfaxes were before him. He's not gentle about it,
but he keeps order and enforces something that looks like justice if you
squint a bit.''

A third finger.

``Foundling. Well, you've met her yourself. She thinks she's saving
Callow. You could argue her intentions are heroic, even if she's a
little more complicated than that.''

``You despise the Empire even more than I do,'' the hero frowned. ``Yet
this seems like a fairly impassioned defence of it.''

``The thing is, William,'' she said, ignoring his interjection.
``They're not the first villains to ever win a few battles. It's without
precedent for the Empire to keep Callow for over twenty years, though.
Why are they different?''

``We've never dealt with villains quite as skilled who did not
compulsively backstab each other,'' the Lone Swordsman said. ``Or get
killed by rivals.''

``That's another thing, yes,'' Almorava said. ``There's loyalty there.
Affection, even. Not traits you usually associate with villains. Not
that they're incapable of them, but Names magnify everything you are --
and you don't get to shake hands with the Gods Below by being a choir
boy.''

``I don't follow your point,'' William admitted.

``These are some of the most successful villains in the history of the
Empire,'' she said. ``And they became that by going through the motions
of being Good.''

The dark-haired man's brow rose. ``They are most definitely not.''

``Oh, I'm not arguing that they are,'' the Bard said. ``See, I think
that we \emph{are} born Evil. Because Evil is instinct. It's that animal
part of us that wants things for ourselves no matter what it does to
others. It's been dressed up in philosophy since, but that's the heart
of it.''

She smiled mirthlessly.

``But I want to believe that when the Gods made us, they gave us thought
as well as instinct. We teach ourselves to be Good, William. Because we
want to be better. It's not as easy but maybe, just maybe, if we do it
long enough it will be what comes naturally to us.''

``So you're saying the \emph{Carrion Lord} is trying to be Good?'' he
said sceptically.

``I'm saying these are the first villains in a long time who're going
with thought instead of instinct,'' Almorava replied. ``It's why they're
weaker, too. They're leaning in the wrong direction and it has
\emph{cost} them.''

``I don't see how that makes anything better,'' the Lone Swordsman
sighed.

``Earlier, you spoke of a root cause. People being people, was it?
Except people are learning, William. Even the other side's noticed, to
the extent that they try to bastardize what we are. They say that the
Heavens gave us laws, but that's not really true is it? What they
actually gave us is guidelines, to make a better world. \emph{And it's
working}.''

The Wandering Bard rose to her feet. Almorava wasn't pretty, though in
some light she could be called striking. The dark skin, curly hair and
strong nose made her face interesting to look at but not so attractive
to be intimidating. Normally she had her lute, but tonight it was
nowhere in sight. She always wore the same clothes of silk and leather,
but this time they were freshly cleaned. \emph{And for once she doesn't
smell like a brewery}, William added a little less kindly.

``Day by day,'' she said. ``Year by year, century by century -- we're
making Creation a better place. Even the bottom of the barrel is pulled
up when you hoist the whole thing.''

``It's a pretty thought,'' the hero said. ``Doesn't help all of us who
live in Creation now instead of in a hundred years, though.''

``I know,'' she said, laying a hand on his shoulder. ``But I don't want
you to put that sword into that stone thinking it's for nothing. We're
part of something larger than us, William of Greenbury. Something that
uses us \emph{sorely}. But\ldots{}''

``Good doesn't have to be nice,'' he quietly echoed her words from
earlier. ``Just righteous.''

He'd shivered, when she'd said his full name. He'd never told it to her,
and no one had called him by that in years. What felt like a lifetime
ago. Almorava stayed close to him and for a moment he thought she was
going to kiss him. She'd certainly not been subtle about being attracted
to him, or to quite a few other people. If she did, he would turn away.
Instead she lay her head on his chest and looped her arms around him,
sighing quietly. After a moment he hugged her back.

``Every time,'' she whispered. ``You poor Contrition fools break my
heart every time.''

She drew away, hand lingering on his chest, and left without another
word. Silently, William of Greenbury stepped to the altar. He unsheathed
the Penitent's Blade and slid it inside smoothly, the sword entering
without resistance or leaving a mark. He knelt before the stone and
closed his eyes. Behind all that Almorava had said about thought and
instinct, he found a deeper truth. It Evil was truly inherent, as she
seemed to believe, then to be Good was to make a choice. The thought
moved him more than he thought it would.

``It is, we are told, the only choice that really matters,'' he
murmured.

The last line of the first page from the Book of All Things. He was
making his choice, tonight. For seven hours he would pray, and then
return to Liesse.

Forty-nine hours later, a Hashmallim would come into Creation the exact
moment he died.
