\hypertarget{chapter-8-introduction}{%
\section{Chapter 8: Introduction}\label{chapter-8-introduction}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Note: orc buoyancy is limited. Avoid fighting the damnable
rebels near shoddily-built dams in the future.''}

-- Extract from the journal of Dread Emperor Malignant II
\end{quote}

They called Summerholm the Gate of the East.

Should the Legions manage to bypass the Blessed Isle -- as they had a
handful of times in the past -- it was the only walled city between the
Empire and the heartlands of Callow. It was the one city the Praesi
\emph{had} to take, since it commanded the only bridge across the
Hwaerte River. As far as I knew, the Wastelanders had only managed to
conquer it twice: once during the Conquest and once over seven hundred
years ago, under Dread Empress Triumphant. While my teacher had managed
to reduce its walls through clever use of goblin engineering, Triumphant
had simply made them obsolete by sailing her flying fortress right over
them. I could see why she would have gone to such an extreme, now that I
was in sight of those very fortifications. The side of the city we were
facing was the least fortified, but even here the walls ran two
concentric circles of stark granite over fifty feet tall. Crenelated
bastions ran the length of them, most showing the silhouette of a siege
engine, and even as close to sundown as we were there were soldiers
manning them. \emph{Legionaries instead of the Royal Guard, though. Not
that they're any less well-trained -- the opposite, if anything.}

``They look like they're expecting an army any moment,'' I commented as
I guided Zombie towards Black with a tug of the reins.

His own horse was also a necromantic construct, I was sure of it --
there was a certain\ldots{} smell to that kind of power that I was
beginning to pick up on -- but it was hard to tell what it actually
looked like under all the steel it was covered in. With all the weight
that meant I was pretty sure his mount could double as a battering ram
in a pinch, though that would do to the horse under it did not bear
imagining.

``Summerholm has always been the keystone to warding off invasions,'' he
replied. ``It continues to serve that purpose, if under a different
banner.''

I snorted. ``And who'd be doing the invading, exactly?''

For better or worse, the Empire's hold on Callow was unchallenged.
There'd been no major uprising since the Conquest, and with Procer
embroiled in that particularly nasty civil war of theirs they'd had
other things on their mind. That left the Free Cities to the south,
who'd only ever managed to stop attacking each other when they were
being invaded, and the fanatically isolationist elves to the north
hiding in their forest.

``There's always someone plotting nefarious designs around here,'' Black
replied drily. ``It's something of an occupational hazard.''

I rolled my eyes. I had a feeling there was more to it than that but my
teacher declined to elaborate any further on the subject though, so I
elected to let the matter go. I'd bring it up again when I'd acquired a
better education on all things Praesi, of course, but until then there
was no real point to it. Besides, we'd gotten close enough tot he city
that I could see the Legion camps sprawled all around it. The official
roster of soldiers for a legion was four thousand fighting men, I
dredged up from my most recent readings, though the \emph{Praecepta
Militaria} had stated there were usually about as many camp followers,
merchants and servants trailing in their wake. It would have been
impossible for a city the size of Summerholm to lodge two legions
comfortably, so a pair of semi-permanents camps had been established
outside the walls.

``Weeping Heavens,'' I muttered, ``It's like a second city.''

However many civilians the Sixth and Ninth legions had started out
followed by, the number had swelled out of control since. The central
areas where legionaries slept were cleanly outlined according to
regulations, overlooked by earthen walls and watchtowers, but around
them small towns had sprouted into existence. Dingy huts made of wood
and baked clay from the river banks made up up some of it, but there
were twice as many pitched tents of all colours. Some avenues large
enough for troops to go through had been established, but the rest of it
was a messy labyrinth of small lanes. We were maybe an hour away from
sundown but the place was teeming with activity, from the small courts
were merchants were selling their wares in improvised market stands to
the clumps of families making their evening meals in massive iron
cooking pots. There was even a man trying to guide a herd of goats into
a pen, though one of the does kept getting away to bleat plaintively at
a very amused legionary.

``Summerholm is where Praesi and Callowans mingle the most,'' Black
spoke as our party started down the slope towards the camps. ``All trade
goes through it, so it's fast becoming one of the richest cities in the
Empire.''

``And there haven't been any tensions?'' I asked. ``I heard the siege
got pretty rough, towards the end.''

Summerholm hadn't been sacked, not exactly -- Legion regulations stated
that rapists were hanged and looters lost a hand if caught with stolen
property -- but the final assault on the walls had been costly enough
that no one on the Empire's side had been particularly inclined to mercy
when the surrender had been given.

``Rebuilding the city accrued some good will,'' Black murmured. ``And
leaving eight thousand men and women in the prime of their life as
garrison means that mixed race marriages were an inevitability.''

He paused for a moment.

``You're not wrong, however. Summerholm is the pulse of Callowan
sentiment towards the occupation: any rebellion with a chance of success
will have its seeds planted here. Our agents have been keeping a close
eye on things.''

\emph{Our agents.} I'd avoided questioning Black on where he was
learning all these things he wasn't supposed to know so far, but since
he was bringing up the subject\ldots{}

``The Eyes of the Empire,'' I said. ``That's what your spies are called,
aren't they?''

They were famous among Callowans, a shadowy threat to match the very
visible one posed by the Legions. Everybody had a story about how one of
their cousins or a friend of a friend had been snatched in the dark of
night by the ruthless men and women who bore the lidless eye tattoo. I
was pretty sure I'd seen one in the Nest, once. Well, either that or a
man with a deplorable fondness for hooded cloaks. Black's lips stretched
into a sardonic smile.

``Ah, the Eyes,'' he mused. ``One of Scribe's better ideas, that.''

I frowned. ``What's that supposed to mean?''

``I have a great deal of spies in Callow, true,'' he acknowledged. ``So
do Malicia and quite a few of the High Lords. But I assure you none of
them go around hiding their face or bearing an incriminating mark.''

``But there \emph{are} people like that going around,'' I pointed out.
``If they're not yours, whose are they?''

``Oh, they're mine,'' Black replied. ``But they're not meant to actually
gather information.''

I closed my eyes and rubbed the bridge of my nose. The way the man
thought gave me headaches, but there was a twisted sort of sense in what
he was saying.

``So while everyone is paying attention to the shady people looming in
the corners\ldots{}''

``No one thinks twice about the waitress serving drinks just close
enough to eavesdrop,'' he finished amusedly. ``Every resistance movement
in Callow worth the name checks prospective members for the eye before
letting them in. Letting them catch a few `attempted infiltrators' every
year lets us slip in agents when we really need them.''

My teacher was kind of a bastard, I reflected, but I couldn't deny that
he was a \emph{clever} bastard.

``And nobody's ever seen through that?'' I asked.

``Once you give people what they expect to see,'' he shrugged, ``they
rarely bother to dig any deeper.''

I grunted, chewing over that particular tidbit in silence. He'd offered
it almost off-handedly, but it seemed to be the way he approached a lot
of things -- playing on the assumptions of his enemies, making them
think they had it right while preparing the knife in the back.
Everything surrounding Names had a pattern to it, almost formulaic steps
that every child learned from the cradle through stories of heroes and
villains: people who adhered to those steps, whether consciously or not,
became predictable in a way. It was something I could use to my own
advantage, if I paid attention closely enough. Putting the thoughts
aside, I returned to more immediate matters.

``So your agents in Summerholm,'' I probed, ``have they mentioned
anything interesting?''

I already knew I'd have a welcoming committee waiting for me in the
city: the three bundles of pressure in the back of my mind felt too
close to be anywhere else. The fourth bundle, the weird one, was still a
little ways off. It got stronger every day, though, which I took to mean
it was headed in our direction. Black had avoided telling me too much
about what awaited me in Summerholm, so far, but I had no idea whether
that was because he was a cryptic jackass by nature or because there
would be\ldots{}. consequences if he did. Still, stumbling blind into
the situation blind was a decent way to head for an early grave: I'd be
much more comfortable going in with an edge, any edge. The dark-haired
man graced me with a steady look.

``There are two major resistance movements in the city, at the moment,''
he finally said. ``The Sons of Streges -- disaffected veterans, mostly
-- and a splinter group of the former Thieves' Guild. My agents in both
of them have stopped reporting.''

The tone was flat, a stark contrast to the way he usually seemed to take
everything half-seriously.

``You think they got caught,'' I said.

``They are either dead or held captive,'' he stated. ``There are ways
through which they would have contacted the network, otherwise.''

I frowned. If a single agent had been caught it could have been a simple
blunder on the person's part, but every single one of them?

``Magic?'' I questioned. ``Truth spells are rare, but they're not
exactly unheard of.''

He shook his head. ``There is no such thing as a reliable truth spell,''
he informed me. ``At best they can increase the odds of catching someone
in a lie -- and given how esoteric that branch of magic is, very few
mages ever bother to study them. There are, as far as I am aware, none
who have in Callow.''

It went unsaid that his awareness was as far and wide as it was feasible
for someone with the resources he had at his disposal to manage.

``I'm having a hard time believing every single one of your spies
screwed up at the same time,'' I told him.

``So am I,'' he said quietly. ``Which means we may have a hero on our
hands.''

Well, \emph{fuck}. ``That's bad, right?'' I asked. ``Because it sounds
bad. I thought you caught these types before they ever got in a position
to do stuff like this?''

``Once in a while, one slips the net,'' Black admitted. ``Normally they
out themselves shortly after by taking a stand for justice in some
backwater village, but this one has made no ripples at all.'' He
frowned. ``Or, more likely, made them somewhere they went unnoticed.''

I grimaced. ``Careful or lucky?''

``I've found the more dangerous heroes are a little of both,'' the
Knight replied. ``The infestation is still limited to a single Role, I
believe -- if they'd assembled a whole party it would have been noticed
-- so we're dealing with a very specific type of hero.''

``That already sounds more manageable,'' I said. I didn't know if I had
it in me to stab a Bard, honestly. The were always charmingly
ineffective in the stories, it would have been like kicking a puppy.
``So, some lone wolf kind of deal?''

``A gritty avenging type, I'd wager,'' Black replied. ``They crop up
with unfortunate regularity.''

So, three strangers who wanted my head on a pike, Role shenanigans and a
hero on the loose. Evidently, my first visit of Summerholm was shaping
up to be a memorable one. I let silence fall down and our party headed
for the camps, riding off the main road into the countryside.

People came to greet us before we got into the camp proper.

A dozen legionaries in heavy plate were escorting a orc woman going
without a helmet. On foot, all of them -- the Legions didn't really have
cavalry to speak of, except for the Thirteenth. Captain pulled up at my
side and I shot her a quizzical glance.

``Istrid,'' she simply gravelled as the legionaries got closer.

Black dismounted and I followed suit after a heartbeat, standing a back
as my teacher strode towards General Istrid. The general's skin was
almost more brown than green, I noticed: she looked like she'd been
carved out of rough old leather, though that was common enough in the
older orcs. There was a wide scar on her cheek that pulled at her eye,
fixing her face in a mocking rictus that looked impressively firece on
someone in full legion gear. She was one of taller greenskins I'd seen,
though not quite as broad-shouldered as most orcs her size would be:
still, she towered at least two feet above me. \emph{And above Black
too}, I noted with amusement.

``Warlord,'' she growled in Kharsum, offering up her arm the same way
Lieutenant Abase had shown me a few days back. The word she'd used
wasn't the one I'd read in the books I'd been given, but the
pronunciations was fairly similar -- I suppose it might have changed
since the manuscript had been written, or she could have been using a
slightly different dialect. Black clasped her arm without hesitation.

``Istrid,'' he greeted her in the same language, tone fond. ``Couldn't
wait for us to make it to your tent?''

``I got bored,'' she replied unashamedly. ``You took your sweet time
coming.''

``There was a situation Laure that needed seeing to,'' the Knight spoke
mildly.

The orc officer barked out a harsh laugh. ``Heard about that. Finally
hanged the fucker, huh? Been a long time coming.''

\emph{Ha!} I was already feeling rather better disposed towards General
Istrid -- anyone who wanted to see Mazus swinging from a noose couldn't
be all bad.

``Good things come to those who wait,'' Black told her.

``Now you're sounding like Sacker,'' Istrid growled. ``You two will be
the death of me. Never mind that -- Captain, that you hanging around in
the back?''

The woman in question patted my shoulder and moved to join them, leaving
me to stand with the ever-silent Blackguards and Scribe. Black's band of
bodyguards was no longer as silent as it had once been around me, but
they'd reverted to silent statues as soon as we'd come in sight of
Summerholm. I glance towards Scribe who had, I saw, also dismounted. She
was standing closest to me, and since it didn't seem like my presence
would be noticed any time soon I ambled in her direction.

``They seem pretty friendly,'' I said.

She wasn't a very talkative woman, Scribe. The most I'd ever heard her
say was that handful of sentences the first time we'd met, and since
then she'd always seemed so busy I'd hesitated to try and strike up a
conversation. No parchments in her hands now, though, and it wasn't like
I had anything better to do.

``They've known each other for a long time,'' she replied, to my
surprise. ``Istrid's clan was the second to side with Black, when he was
still the Squire.''

Huh. That certainly explained why they were still catching up like old
friends sharing drinks instead of heading to the general's tent.

``Known her for long too, then?'' I asked.

I knew precious little about Scribe, except that she'd been around Black
since before the Conquest. None of the stories I'd heard mentioned her
except in passing, and it wasn't like she'd surrendered any information
about herself since we'd met. I knew disappeared for a few hours
everyday and came back with fresh new correspondence, but where and how
she got the letters remained a mystery. The plain-faced woman shook her
head. ``I came later.''

\emph{Like squeezing blood out of a stone}, I thought. I shuffled
awkwardly on my feet and tried to think of something to say, but was
saved at the last moment by an outside interruption.

``Catherine,'' Black called out. ``Introductions are in order.''

I shot Scribe a mildly relieved look and headed for the cluster of old
friends. General Istrid sized me up as I walked without even the
pretence of subtlety and I straightened my spine out of habit. She
wouldn't take a stick to my fingers every time I slouched to make sure I
had proper posture the way the House matron had, but then again I had a
feeling that making a bad impression on the commander of the Sixth
Legion would have more dire consequences than throbbing knuckles.

``Istrid,'' the Knight said, ``Meet Catherine Foundling.''

The tall orc frowned, then turned to look at him. ``She looks like
Wallerspawn,'' she said in Kharsum.

I scowled, partly at her blatant dismissal and partly at the word she'd
used -- Waller was a term orcs used to mean Deoraithe but it wasn't
exactly a polite one. ``Half,'' I replied in the same tongue, painfully
aware that my pronunciation was tetchy. ``That a problem?''

That certainly got her attention. ``Well,'' she drawled, showing a row
of sharp teeth, ``at least you're not shy. You sound Callowan, girl --
where'd he dig you up?''

``Laure,'' I replied. ``You end up meeting all sorts of interesting
types, when stabbing people.''

The general barked a laugh. ``Ain't that the truth. Well met, Catherine
Foundling.''

She offered her arm to clasp and I reciprocated, somehow managing to
keep my nerves off of my face. The general seemed a lot taller now that
I stood in front of her and that rictus on her face hadn't gone
anywhere: she made for a rather intimidating sight, and the story of her
staring down a charge of Callowan knights was still fresh in mind.
\emph{Possibly she scowled at them and they decided they had better
things to do somewhere on the other side of the Tyrian sea.} \emph{Gods
know I kind of wish I did.}

``Let's not make Sacker wait too long,'' Captain spoke up as I stepped
back. ``Odds are she already has eyes on us.''

``Sucker's bet,'' Istrid grunted before turning to address her
legionaries. ``Stable the horses and find somewhere for the Warlord's
retinue to stash their gear.''

A chorus of salutes was her only reply and I handed off Zombie's reins
to an olive-skinned woman with sergeant's stripes when prompted. General
Istrid led the way to one of the avenues I'd glimpsed earlier, followed
by Black and Captain -- I glanced back to see if Scribe was following
us, but she'd disappeared into thin air when I wasn't looking.
\emph{Wait, wouldn't have had to pass next to us to} g\emph{et into the
camp?} A large hand settled on my shoulder, gently steering me forward.
``She does that,'' Captain gravelled. ``It's part of her Role to stay in
the background. She'll pop up again when she's needed.''

How much of my not noticing Scribe had come from her being quiet and how
much had come from the effects of her Role, I wondered? I muttered
something that could pass as agreement and let the matter drop. Sundown
was almost on us, and as a result activity in the wider camp had died
down: the improvised markets were closing and people were trailing out
of the camp and heading towards the gates of Summerholm.

\emph{I suppose it makes sense that not all of them stay here after
nightfall.} For another group getting through the crowds quickly might
have been an issue, but everyone was giving us a wide berth. Nobody was
quite so bold as to point fingers in our direction, but quite a few
people seemed to recognize Black and Captain -- whispers bloomed in our
wake wherever we went. The weight of the attention made me
uncomfortable: the feeling of the three other potential Squires hadn't
gotten any closer, but I had more than them to worry about now. There
might very well be a hero somewhere in the masses, and if they were
looking for a target I was painfully aware that I was the easiest one
available. I was not, after all, so deluded as to think that half a Name
and a week's worth of training with a sword and board would make me a
match for a veteran of the Conquest like General Istrid. The grip on the
short sword at her hip was well-worn, and she walked like someone who
thought of their weapon like an extension of their limbs.

We encountered two patrols as we delved deeper into the impromptu town,
both of them stopping to salute as we passed by. More and more
legionaries stood watch as we got closer to the actual Legion camp --
well, one of them anyway. The standards spread out everywhere all bore
the Sixth Legion's number in Miezan numerals, so it was pretty obvious
this was theirs and not the Ninth's. By the time we made it to the large
pavilion that apparently served as General Istrid's council room, night
had fallen. Torches were already burning, though they were hardly needed
considering how many cooking fires there were out there: the trail of
smoke in the sky must have been visible for miles. The inside of the
pavilion was empty except for a large table of polished wood surrounded
by comfortable-looking chairs. There was only one person inside: a small
goblin woman, under five feet tall and so heavily wrinkled her face
looked like a mask. General Sacker, I assumed. She looked almost
half-sleep, her yellow eyes were half-lidded even as she gave me an
once-over before turning towards my teacher.

``Lord Black,'' she murmured from her seat, bowing her head ever so
slightly.

She was so quiet I almost missed the words, but the green-eyed man
nodded back without missing a beat.

``General Sacker,'' he replied, ``It's been too long.''

She inclined her head again.

``Gods Below,'' General Istrid interrupted with disgust, ``the both of
you sound like you're attending a feast at the Tower. I'm going to need
a drink, if we're doing the fucking Praesi rituals.''

``Finally,'' I muttered, ``someone's willing to say it out loud.''

Istrid shot me an amused look as she poured herself a cup some sort of
amber liquor from one of the carafes on the table. When I returned my
attention to the others, I found that General Sacker was looking at me
-- and there was no longer anything half-asleep about her demeanour as
she studied me. I'd always heard calculating eyes referred to as cold
and cool, but if anything the yellow gaze pinning me seemed to burn with
focused intensity. \emph{Clever as a snake and twice as mean}, Captain
had told me.

``You're from Laure,'' General Sacker spoke in the same whisper-thin
voice. ``Interesting. Orphan?''

I wasn't sure who the question was addressed to so I glanced at Black,
but he'd already claimed a seat and was pouring himself a drink from the
same carafe as Istrid, paying no attention to the conversation.
\emph{Worst mentor ever.}

``I am,'' I confirmed warily.

Sacker nodded to herself. ``Calloused hands, mhm. Fighting rings?
Illegal in Callow, I do believe.''

Her tone didn't make it clear whether she approved or disapproved.

``So I've heard,'' I simply replied.

I had no idea what her game was, but it felt like she was toying with me
and I very much disliked the feeling of it. My first instinct was to
bite back, but I pushed it down. There was the fact that Captain had
specifically warned me about her, of course, but there was more to it
than that. General Sacker was \emph{old}. By far the oldest goblin I'd
ever met and that made her very, very dangerous -- most of their kind
never made it past thirty five, and looking at the general I guessed she
was pushing forty. Older goblins were notoriously frail and sick but
Sacker was still not only in command of a legion, but of a legion
holding one of the most important fortresses in the Empire. She was, in
short, \emph{not someone I wanted to fuck with}.

``You can mess with her head later, you vicious old bat,'' Istrid broke
in cheerfully, apparently not caring about any of that in the slightest.
``We've got fresher corpses to eat, like our little hero problem.''

General Sacker pursed her lips.

``There's not definitive proof that we have a-''

That was when the pavilion exploded.
