\hypertarget{warden-ii}{%
\section{Warden II}\label{warden-ii}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``There's only a thousand of them, I don't care if they're on a
hill. This will be over by midday, Black Knight, mark my words.''}

-- Dread Empress Sulphurous, the Technically Correct
\end{quote}

As midnight neared, two women on opposite sides of the same continent
found themselves looking up at the sky at the same time by Fate or
coincidence.

Dread Empress Malicia, First of Her Name, tugged her modest cotton
nightgown closer together and watched the crescent moon from her rooms
above the clouds, near the summit of the Tower. Soninke called it
Sorcerous' Grin, for the eldritch rituals the Emperor had concocted in
its light had not been seen since the days of the Miezans. Some said a
sliver of the man was still up there, scheming his escape from death.

Cordelia Hasenbach, claimant to the throne of Procer, had been looking
through one of the few windows in Rhenia's main hall for hours. She'd
seen the moon rise, and thought it fitting. Lycaonese soldiers called it
the Ratbane: the crescent in the sky heralded the beginning of the fight
to crush the ratling warbands that crossed the northern rivers every
month. There would be blood, soon. The fate of Procer demanded it.

Neither of them would find sleep that night. Malicia quietly poured
herself a cup of truly terrible wine, the taste of it bittersweet.
Cordelia stirred the embers in the fireplace with an iron poker and eyed
the dancing red motes, her mind faraway.

In Aisne, the game began.

---

This would haunt her until the day she died, Therese knew. The foulness
of what she had to do would be a lash on her back for the rest of her
life. But what choice did she have? They had her wife. They had her
\emph{children}. The Lycaonese woman crept softly to Klaus Papenheim's
tent, where a single candle still burned. Twenty years, she'd fought for
the prince. She'd followed him unflinchingly when he'd charged two
hundred cataphracts into the meat of a ratling army of thousands,
backwhen the Longtooth Lord had tried to breach the walls of Hannoven.
She'd pulled him out of the mouth of an Ancient One when the tower-sized
monstrous rat had been about to bite clean through his plate, the year
after. She'd gone through a hundred battles and skirmishes at his side,
fighting for a duty no one south of Neustria would ever understand.

And now she was going to murder him her prince in cold blood. The tent's
flap parted silently under her hand and she reached for her knife with a
knot in her throat, the knowledge of what she was about to do like ashes
in her mouth. There was a single lit candle at the table, Therese saw
with a blink of surprise, but no sign of Prince Klaus himself. Not at
the table, and not in his bed. The first stroke of the sword took her in
the back of the knee and she fell with a grunt of pain. Looking up she
saw two old comrades, soldiers she'd bled with, looking down at her with
grief. One kicked the knife out of her hands and she did not attempt to
get up.

``I'm sorry, Therese,'' one said.

``So am I,'' she said, and closed her eyes.

She had failed. Would they kill her family anyway? Maybe not, if she
died for this. She heard the blade come down, and she almost smiled. The
Enemy had worked through her but found House Hasenbach ready for them.
There was satisfaction in that.

``And Yet We Stand,'' she whispered, a heartbeat before the sword took
her life.

---

He would not be remembered as a hero, Louis knew. By taking one life
tonight he would save tens of thousands tomorrow, but he would win no
praise for it. His name would be a byword for treachery for decades, the
servant who had turned on his mistress at the behest of her enemy. He
knew this, but still he carried the dagger under his clothes. He had no
wife, no children, but he did have a sister. Barely more than a child,
the sweetest little girl. And he'd known, when the First Prince's man
had come to him, what kind of Procer he wanted her to grow up in. Not
one where anyone old enough to bear a weapon was handed a pike and sent
to the grinder. Not one where armies roamed the land, burning everything
as they passed while their rulers spent lives they should be guarding
like coppers. He could make a better world, and he would. Not matter the
cost.

Princess Constance of Aisne would be deep in slumber: the wine she'd
indulged in would make sure she did not stir. Louis slipped in through
the servant entrance and stepped quietly into his ruler's chambers. The
tall glass doors leading to the balcony were open, pale drapes
fluttering in the wind as the moon's light coated everything in a soft
glow. The princess' body was wrapped in her covers, her lover of the
month pressed close. Both still asleep. Taking out the knife, Louis let
out a soft breath. He could do this. He had to. He was already nervous
and froze when he glimpsed two silhouettes from the corner of his eye,
though he relaxed when they did not move. They were\ldots{} two other
servants. Dead, their throats slit and blood dripping onto their
clothes. One corpse's hands had been angled to cover his eyes, the
other's her eyes. \emph{What?}

The last thing Louis ever felt was a blade opening his throat in perfect
silence.

---

Jacques was set for life, after this. A single night's work and he would
live like a prince for the rest of his days. He supposed what he'd been
told to do was treason, but what the fuck did \emph{he} care? Treason
was for crowned heads to debate. Fantassins like him were just meant to
die obediently while the owners of Procer traded a few acres of land
still covered in blood, keeping it for maybe a decade. Then the call
came again, sons dying for the exact same godsdamned acres their fathers
had: no one won at this game save for the princes, and he was fucking
sick of it. He'd been offered a way out, a real future, and he was going
to take it. They weren't asking anything he wasn't glad to do, anyway.
The Prince of Brus might be suckling at the Hasenbach tit, nowadays, but
some of Jacques' friends had died keeping the savages out of their land.
He had not forgotten that, unlike their cockless wonder of a prince.

A few free drinks had been enough for him to learn when the patrols
would go by, and any idiot could get his hands on a torch. The Lycaonese
restricted use of fire on campaign, but their writ ran no further than
their own camps. The presumptuous bastards were outnumbered by Alamans
already, and after tomorrow the gap would widen further. Good riddance.
Let them crawl back to their barren wasteland of a home and resume
mating with ratlings. The torch in his hand was dripping oil, so it had
been a good notion to wrap his hand with a cloth first. The fantassin
didn't bother to try to break padlock on the granary, instead taking a
step back and pressing his torch against the wooden wall until it caught
fire. He did the same on the three others before tossing away his torch
and making his exit. Screams of alarm spread eventually, but far too
late. The grain would burn. Let the fucking Lycaonese dine on the ashes.

Jacques whistled as he returned to his tent, already thinking of the
nice little shop he was going to open in Brus when all this mess settled
down.

---

Annette's hands were shaking. She hated doing this, she really did. The
horses hadn't done anything to anyone. They were innocent, and no matter
what the House of Light said she wasn't convinced they didn't have
souls. They were such wonderful creatures, so gentle and affectionate if
you had a way with them. Annette did, as her father before her, though
unlike him she'd not become the stablemaster for the Princess of
Aequitan. The others respected her know how, though. She was the one
they went to, when one of the horses got sick and no one knew why. Even
mages listened when she spoke. They'd be waking her up before dawn, she
thought, to ask her to treat the very wrong she was about to commit. If
only there was another way! But there wasn't, and she must. For
\emph{love}.

She still couldn't believe a man like Antoine had fallen for her. He was
a servant too, of course, but part of the household of the Prince of
Cantal. Not a muckabout like her. You could see it just by the way he
talked, the way he dressed so cleanly and wore his elegantly styled
beard. They'd been together for two months now, and after the war they
would get married. He'd promised, and he wouldn't have gotten her those
white roses if he didn't mean it. But now some wicked person was
threatening his life unless he did an equally wicked thing, and doing it
so \emph{unreasonably}. There was no way Antoine could have gotten to
the Princess of Aequitan's horses, her guards beat anyone who even got
close. But Annette could.

Her shaking hands poured the exact number of drops she was supposed to
into the trough before moving on to the next one, the translucent liquid
disappearing without a trace in the water.

``I'm sorry,'' she whispered to the horses. ``But they'll kill him if I
don't.''

---

Lucien Hauteville, chief cook for the army of the Princess of Segovia,
was not in fact called this at all. He'd been born Jacob of Satus,
though he'd left both the name and the faint Praesi accent behind when
he'd joined the Eyes of the Empire. He wasn't technically one of those
anymore, having long ago graduated from skulking in taverns with a
compromising tattoo on his arm while the real agents did the work.
Having survived his infiltration of a resistance group in Denier, he'd
been raised from the ranks at the order of Webweaver herself and sent to
Procer. That had been decades ago, when the Conquest was still fresh.
He'd dug deep roots in Segovia since, married and become a respectable
member of the Princess' household. And never had he ceased sliding a
monthly detailed report between two loose stones outside the palace for
another agent to pick up.

One did not cross the likes of the Lady Scribe, no matter how
comfortable abroad one became. Unlike the Carrion Lord, the Webweaver
would not crucify you: you'd just suddenly\ldots{} disappear, along with
everyone you ever cared about. Besides, if he was careful he could
maintain his cover and return to Segovia after this. It'd been a while
since he'd carved up anyone, though he'd once had a talent for it, so it
was for the best that the task he'd been given was slightly more
indirect. Princess Luisa's highest-ranked commanders had a habit of
unofficially gathering for drinks and wakeleaf on pleasant evenings, and
had not broken the pattern even on this campaign. That was the kind of
target of opportunity an Eye would never outgrow sinking their teeth
into.

Jacob silently barred the door of peasant house the officers had
commandeered, smiling at the sound of raucous laughter coming from
inside. He splashed oil over the wood, then selected another five places
around the house to help the fire get started. Humming under his breath,
he struck a pinewood match and set the first point ablaze. They didn't
notice until he was getting started on the fourth -- too drunk, he
thought -- and by then they were as good as dead. Ignoring the panicked
screaming and the desperate attempts to hack through the door, Jacob
finished his work and melted into the darkness. The smell of cooking
flesh on the wind brought fond memories, but also ideas. Pork for supper
tomorrow, perhaps? He'd recently learned to make Levantine sauce, with
the little peppers. He'd ask Princess Luisa.

---

When dawn came, two women on opposite sides of the same continent broke
their fast with parchment laid out in front of them. Reports, one set
received through messenger pigeons and the other through an elaborate
scrying relay.

Dread Empress Malicia allowed herself a smile, as she was alone in the
dining room. Princess Constance of Aisne was still alive and the
coalition held. A victory, mitigated only by the horses of the Princess
of Aequitan's entire cataphract contingent being poisoned. Assassinating
Klaus Papenheim would have been a coup, but she had never thought the
attempt likely to succeed. And with a third of their supplies gone,
Hasenbach's armies would be forced to give battle soon. With one of
their flanks shaky, as the senior staff of the Princess of Segovia had
quite literally gone up in smoke.

Prince Cordelia Hasenbach frowned at the letters in front of her,
delicately eating a spoonful of broth as her attendants stood silent.
Aequitan had been significantly weakened, but aside from that she'd
failed to make an effect. Her most important victories had been
defensive in nature, protecting her forces instead of weakening her
enemy's. The loss of the granaries was not a major setback, she decided,
as Uncle Klaus had intended on giving battle soon, but it meant retreat
was no longer a feasible option even if necessary. This round, she
silently conceded, went to the Empress.

In Aisne, the game continued.

---

By Klaus' reckoning, the Battle of Aisne begun when the enemy caught
sight of his outriders on the plains to the northwest of the city. His
boys had immediately retreated when the coalition had sent out a larger
cavalry force after them, but by then the horns had been sounded. The
massive armies of the two reluctantly allied princesses begun their
lumbering march to the battlefield, even as the Prince of Hannoven's own
soldiers spread into formation. It was nearing noon when the enemy
arrived, and by then Klaus had arranged his forces in a broad forward
triangle. To the surprise of the coalition, the centre of his formation
was not made out of Lycaonese infantry but of the armies of Lyonis and
Segovia, themselves bordered by Brus and Lange while his northerners
formed the wings on both sides. From atop his horse, the Prince of
Hannoven watched mockery erupt among the staff of the Princess of Aisne.

They probably thought that he'd positioned the troops that way because
he believed that Lyonis and Segovia would run at the first opportunity
if not flanked by more loyal armies. He would have believed the same, in
their place. Messengers immediately began going back and forth between
the armies of the princesses of Aisne and Aequitan, and he knew exactly
what they'd be talking about. Instead of a thick battering ram, the
commanders in both armies would be arguing in favour of spreading out
coalition lines so that they could envelop Klaus' smaller army. It was
the best way to make their superior numbers count. \emph{Now we see if
you were right, Cordelia.} Another hour passed and then the coalition
army began moving forward as they'd been, to the grey-haired man's dark
amusement. His niece had read the opposition like a book.

Neither princess, in the end, was willing to allow the other one's
armies too far from her sight. There was always the risk that the other
ruler would delay the attack on their flank just long enough that the
other racked up the most casualties, only striking after Klau's
formation was already broken. They already thought victory was in the
bag, he realized, so they were planning for the aftermath. There was a
devent chance that a second pitched battle would erupt the moment his
army was scattered, between the two `allied' princesses. An old Alamans
proverb that came to mind: \emph{victors should not offer their back to
the door.} Just after your enemy had won was the best time to slide in
the knife. Even if spreading out would have been better tactics,
politics were making them stupid. And the wretches wondered why there
was a need for a Lycaonese on the throne.

The Prince of Hannoven watched the enemy infantry advance for some time,
then glanced north. Both Klaus and the coalition had massed their
cavalry into a single force and sent it to the side, as had been the
norm in Proceran warfare since the days of Isabella the Mad. The
coalition cavalry, trusting in their larger numbers -- though that
advantage had shrunk somewhat with Aequitan's horses being poisoned,
something that still had the old soldier grinning -- moved forward
first. The two masses met in furious charge to the side the main armies,
and for the first time that day the difference between Lycaonese and
southern warfare was made clear. In Alamans and Arlesites wars,
cataphracts either fought other cataphracts or ran down infantry out of
formation. Mobility was key, and so light armour was favoured. Lycaonese
cataphracts, on the other hand, fought against ratlings. The barbed
arrows and spears used by the Chain of Hunger, which were often poisoned
as well, meant that plate armour had become the standard.

When the cavalries impacted it was a massacre. His Lycaonese horsemen
tore straight through the tip of the enemy wedge before beginning to
slow, and in close quarters the gap between plate and chain mail took
its toll. The melee lasted for the better part of an hour until the
coalition cavalry broke and fled, having lost perhaps a third of their
number. Klaus doubted they would be seen again for the rest of the
engagement, though he'd keep eyes on them just in case.

The sight must have been a shock to the princesses of Aisne and
Aequitan, he decided, but now it would not be enough to give them pause.
The two princesses were smelling a victory right now. When the ranks of
infantry had met the sound of shield walls colliding was like thunder,
but after an initial valiant effort by the centre of Klaus' formation
the sheer mass of the coalition army began to push the soldiers of
Lyonis and Segovia back. That impact reverberated until it turned into
an actual retreat, the arranged triangle of his formation slowly caving
inwards. All that, he had planned for. He kept a close on on the centre
since they were the most important part of his strategy. The Segovians,
he noted, were fighting like devils. They were making the coalition
bleed for every inch as they retreated.

He owed Princess Luisa an apology, it seemed. The old fox was keeping
her part of the bargain and more. Slowly his outwards triangle was
turning into an arc of the opposite curvature, the Lycaonese he'd placed
at the two back wings of the triangle now turning into the tips of the
arc as the coalition pushed deeper and deeper. Then the soldiers under
the Prince of Lyonis turned their slow retreat into something more like
a rout, leaving a hole in the formation, and Klaus cursed loudly.

``Fabien, you weaselling fuck,'' he said through gritted teeth. ``I hope
they spit roast you in the Furthest Hell for that.''

---

Prince Fabien of Lyonis pressed his horse forward, his troops keeping
pace as well as they could. No doubt the old brute from Hannoven was
pissing his pants about now. Without Lyonis holding the centre with the
Segovians, there was a gaping hole in the centre of Papenheim's
formation. Now the coalition would flow into the room, splitting their
enemies into two smaller forces and overwhelming them individually. The
decision to turn his cloak had been quite easy, as it happened. While
his cousins in Cleves and Hainaut were no longer willing or able to
support his bid for the throne, his correspondence in Arans had begun
yielding results of late. The moment Hasenbach retreated to the
mountains with her tail between her legs he could seize Brus and
strongarm the boy in Lange into backing him, putting Fabien back at the
head of an alliance to rival any of the others.

Both Constance of Aisne and Aenor of Aequitan had offered to pay him for
the privilege of becoming their rival, amusingly enough, and securing
another loan from the Pravus Bank had been child's play. Whether it was
the Praesi furnishing that gold or not ultimately mattered little to
him: after he became First Prince he could default on the debt and what
would \emph{they} be able to do about it? Invade the Principate to
collect? Laughable. It could be argued by that emptying the Empire's
coffers he was doing the work of the Heavens, he'd decided. Besides, if
he didn't take the coin his enemies would. That kind of an advantage
could be enough to bury him even if he was careful. All that was left,
he thought, was to decide was whether or not the army of Lyonis would
strike the soldiers of Lange on its way out of the killing field. He was
inclined to do so. If he could grab the boy prince, that entire
principality was as good as his.

``Brother,'' he heard from the side.

Ah, Sophie. Still playing the soldier, he saw, with her plate armour and
pretty white horse. The youngest of his sisters always did have a fancy
for the military life.

``An auspicious day, Sophie,'' he smiled. ``We've just won the Battle of
Aisne.''

``So I see,'' the dark-haired girl replied. ``Are you sure turning on
Hasenbach is wise?''

As their horses pulled side by side, Fabien snorted contemptuously.

``She's a decent hand at the Ebb and Flow, for a Lycaonese,'' he
conceded. ``But she's a long way from home. The girl must learn her
place.''

``I happen to have a notion of where that is,'' Lady Sophie agreed.

Before he could blink her sword was out of her scabbard and buried in
his throat.

``On the throne,'' his sister said calmly. ``The First Prince sends her
regards, brother.''

Sagging on his horse, the last thing the Prince of Lyonis ever heard was
his sister taking command of the army and ordering it back into
formation.

---

Prince Etienne of Brabant watched the army of Lyonis fall back into
line, and in that moment made his decision. He still believed that
Princess Constance would make for a good First Princess, and not just
because she'd promised to wed her son to his eldest daughter. She had
the connections, the experience and the vision to bring the Principate
into a golden age. But he'd been ruminating Hasenbach's letter for
months now, and come to the conclusion that the girl was right. It was
no longer important \emph{who} took the throne: Procer could not afford
to go without a supreme leader anymore. The divides were beginning to
run too deep. If he kept supporting the Princess of Aisne, the end of
the civil war was nowhere in sight. Aenor of Aequitan had comparable
backing and would never bow to a woman she despised so much -- but she
had no personal enmity with Hasenbach. None of them did.

That was, he supposed, the best reason he could think of for putting the
Lycaonese girl on the throne. She would not be an effective First
Prince, he thought: she didn't haven enough allies among the Alamans and
the Arlesites to keep the Highest Assembly in line. But she had just
enough backers to be crowned, and with her as a figurehead the healing
could begin. Hasenbach was unmarried and had shown no interest in
remedying that, so her dynasty need not last longer than a generation.
An Alamans could reclaim the throne in a few decades and Procer could
move on from these ruinous days. All Etienne had to do for this to come
true was betray an ally. \emph{Ah, well}, he thought. \emph{The waters
ebb and flow, but the tide is eternal.} There was no changing the nature
of this game, harsh as it could be at times. He gestured for his page to
sound the clarion.

Coming late to Princess Constance's cause had meant she'd sweetened his
alignment with quite a few perks, including the forces of Brabant being
positioned to the back of the coalition army. No doubt she'd come to
regret that decision now. His army paused, realigned at the exhortations
of the serjeants and then charged into the back of the coalition forces.
It was only then that he noticed it: in the distance, the Princess of
Orne was doing the very same thing. In the span of a few heartbeats, the
situation of the two princesses leading the coalition had turned from
the eve of victory to the better part of an encirclement. Just enough of
a way out was left that the coalition soldiers would have a path to flee
instead of fight to the death, he noted. The Prince of Hannoven's
experience at work.

Slowly, Papenheim's cataphracts wheeled behind the coalition and formed
a wedge, preparing for a charge into the exposed back. \emph{Weeping
Heavens}, he thought, all the pieces coming together. \emph{This is
going to be a massacre.} Perhaps Hasenbach did have it in her to be more
than a figurehead, if she could be this ruthless.

---

Klaus Papenheim had more than a few battles under his belt. The campaign
into Lange had seen precious few pitched engagements -- ambushes and
raids had been the way he'd picked, making use of the Augur's powers to
find vulnerable moments -- but he'd fought ratlings by the shores of
Lake Netzach many a time to prevent them from putting enough warbands
together to threaten Hannoven. This, though? This was something else.
The ranks of the coalition began shrinking until the entire
force\ldots{} crumpled. After sending his cataphracts charging into
their backs twice he had to hold the riders back or risk them being
swept away by the human torrent of fleeing soldiers. They had orders to
make sure neither the princesses of Aisne or Aequitan managed to flee
the field, and the veteran knew that before nightfall he'd have both
women as prisoners in his camp. The Augur's foretelling of where they'd
go had made sure of that.

He might have just ended the Proceran civil war today.

Some principalities would refuse to bend their knees still, but there
would be enough rulers backing Cordelia that she could be elected First
Prince legally. He'd never really doubted that his niece could do it,
could lead them to victory, but there'd always been a sense that the
victory was a distant thing. Years ahead, after long and hard struggles.
Instead he'd campaigned for a little over a year and the entire south of
Procer had burst open like an overripe fruit. The grey-haired man almost
shivered. He knew that the Lycaonese armies were not, in the end,
overwhelmingly stronger than those of the Alamans and Arlesites. They
had advantages, but so did the southerners. For the first time he truly
realized what Cordelia meant, when she'd said that the Empress was in
the process of destroying Procer. \emph{She was making us brittle,
beyond repair, and no one had even noticed.}

Prince Klaus Papenheim found his gaze turning to the east, where in the
distance the shape of the tall mountains separating the Principate from
Callow could almost be glimpsed. This wasn't over. Not even close to it.

---

When nightfall came, two women on opposite sides of the continent found
themselves looking down at hastily-brought reports.

Cordelia Hasenbach, now First Prince of Procer in all but name, put the
sheaf of parchment down and allowed herself to savour the feeling for a
moment. She'd won. By the skin of her teeth, but she had won. She'd
proved that a mere mortal could take on the all-seeing monster in the
Tower and come out ahead. The Principate was not dead and Calernia would
not sink into anarchy. Then the moment passed, and the Prince of Rhenia
composed herself. There was work to do. There would always be work to
do, and more now than ever before.

Dread Empress Malicia's face remained serene even as she put aside the
letter and rose to her feet. Contingencies would have to be implemented.
The throne could not be denied to Hasenbach, but it could be weakened.
The dark-skinned woman came to stand by an old shatranj board, her Name
glimpsing the shivering souls that Dread Emperor Sorcerous had bound to
the pieces.

``This one goes to you, darling,'' she murmured. ``Shall we play
another?''

Without waiting for a reply, she nudged forward a pawn.
