\hypertarget{villainous-interlude-crescendo}{%
\section{Villainous Interlude:
Crescendo}\label{villainous-interlude-crescendo}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Then let us be wicked,}

\emph{Let us be reddest ruin}

\emph{Rent, broken, crooked}

\emph{Black hearted and cruel}

\emph{Then let us be doom,}

\emph{To both friend and foe}

\emph{Fly banner of gloom}

\emph{We lowest of the low}

\emph{Rise, rise all ye villains}

\emph{You rogues and madmen}

\emph{Proudly claim the stage,}

\emph{Of this wondrous age}

\emph{We are not kind or just}

\emph{Deserving of any victory}

\emph{We are a thing of dust}

\emph{Promised only misery}

\emph{So smile, Tyrants,}

\emph{And let us be wicked''}

-- Final monologue of ``The Many Deaths of Traitorous'', a play on the
reign of the Dread Emperor Traitorous
\end{quote}

In the depths of the city of Liesse, beyond layers upon layers of wards
and traps, there was a room. For more than a year it had been slowly
crafted to perfection, and for years before that had Akua Sahelian spent
days and nights refining its design. Removing impurities and
inefficiencies, balancing ease of use and breadth of effect so that only
a single soul in all of Creation could use it as it was meant to be
used. Should she live for a hundred thousand years she would never make
anything half so great, for it was the culmination of everything that
she was. All that she loved and hated, all that had made and fought her.
There had been a child, once, who looked upon pyramids of mud and blood
and felt awe. At the skill, at the scope, at the \emph{power} that still
dwelled within -- and though Tasia Sahelian had toiled greatly to make a
hollow husk of that girl, a mere receptacle for her ambitions, that
spark of wonder had never been snuffed out. It had grown into flame, and
that sacred burn coursed through her veins today. And it whispered of
\emph{triumph}.

Diabolist felt the city pulse like a living creature, arrays of sorcery
spread across it like arteries all leading back to the heart that was
her. In this moment, she knew, she was half a god. How easy it would
have been to grow drunk on that might, had she been of a lesser line.
But she was a Sahelian, the blood of the original murder. The killers of
the first empress, who'd writ the truth of Praes in blood and treachery.
Her forbears had been kings and queens, and Tyrants more than once.
Rule, the ownership of power however fleeting it may be, was nothing
less than her birth right. Walls of carved stone around her were as a
pond, and on those reflective facades she saw the Legions of Terror
standing with a man before them. The Black Knight, she thought, spoke
well. Yet it was wrong, for him to be the speaker. It should have been
Catherine Foundling, her match and mirror. Her red right hand in the
making. Once she had thought too little of the Squire, believed her to
be nothing more than tool and obstacle, but how she had learned since.
Fasili had once remarked it was a shame Foundling was not born Praesi,
for she had the seeds of greatness in her, but Akua knew better.

It had to be this way. It was the fire, the righteous indignation that
made Squire who she was -- a burn no lesser than Diabolist's own. If
she'd never been crushed underfoot, she would never have risen from it
fangs bared. The Soninke closed her eyes and smiled. She could glimpse
the ending of their story already, grasp the edges of its shape with her
fingers. Akua would break Catherine Foundling, shatter her beyond
repair, and the creature of jagged edges and hatred that remained after
would kneel at her feet. And what a fearsome monster she would be, upon
emerging from that crucible. She would sweep through Diabolist's foes
with fire and sword, a woe on all she faced worthy of the name bestowed
upon her. It made Akua shiver in pleasure just to think of it. The
Diabolist opened her eyes and let the words of the Carrion Lord burrow
into her ears. The only distraction was her father's shuffling at her
side, for there was only one seat in this room and it would not tolerate
the sitting of any but her.

``He's not wrong, Mpanzi,'' Dumisai of Aksum said. ``They say nowadays
that the legions won that civil war, the orcs and the goblins, but I
remember it still. The Calamities owned it body and soul: it defined
them as much as their Names. Better not to fight them at all.''

Spoken, she thought, as a man who could have been the Warlock but chose
obscurity over the uncertainty of struggle. The odds, she knew, would
not have been in her father's favour. The Sovereign of the Red Skies had
begun to earn his title when he was still the Apprentice, and though
claimants gained powers when embracing their claim Lord Wekesa would
have had the full might of his old Name behind him. Yet it was never a
certainty, that an Apprentice would become the Warlock. Praesi Names
were never easily won. Akua loved her father, but she would not deny
that in the face of offered greatness he had flinched.

``I do not hate them,'' Diabolist said. ``Nor the Empress. For all their
flaws, they sought to make our people rise. I am not Mother, Papa -- I
do not despise what they are. It is a mistake made in good faith, and
killing them was never the point of this. I am \emph{surpassing} them.
If that must involve taking their lives, then so be it.''

And how long had she dreamed of this, of escaping the shackles? The
Carrion Lord had been right, in part. They could not win the war by
repeating the same defeat with a hundred different fresh faces. But the
pair that ruled Praes had abandoned everything that the peoples of the
Wasteland were to avoid another disgrace, and that was a betrayal
greater than mere failure\emph{.} They could win and still be Praesi,
Akua knew. \emph{Go to your grave gladly, Black Knight, having learned
the truth of that -- you were, for all your weaknesses, a patriot.} She
would not deny the fearsome depth of that loyalty, however twisted it
was. The man's words ended in the tired adage of the Legions, screamed
back by the soldiers, and Diabolist rose to her feet.

``Go,'' she told her father. ``And stay safe. You are worth more to me
than petty victories.''

His arms wrapped around her and for a heartbeat she was a child again,
his chin nestled atop her head.

``Live,'' he whispered. ``Whatever the cost, whatever the consequences.
Live. Nothing else matters.''

``Believe in me,'' she asked.

``'til my last breath and beyond,'' he promised.

No empty words, coming from a sorcerer who knew the mysteries he did. He
left after that, the passing warmth of him lingering behind. Diabolist
stood before the rune-inscribed walls and laid a single finger on them.
They lit up like a starry sky, reaching for a hundred different arrays
spread across houses and bastions and pits. The Carrion Lord had spoken
for the ruling order, for the woman who held the Tower. She would speak,
then, for the Wasteland. For the Empire that was and would be, for the
greatness that was not yet forgot. Akua Sahelia stood proud, for there
was more to her than mere ambition.

``We are,'' she said quietly, ``the last of the Praesi.''

They would hear her, her words carried by sorcery worn and ancient. They
would hear her and know they might be wicked but they were not wrong.

``The Tower,'' Akua said, ``is in the hands of a woman who would rule us
forever. Before us stand her legions of dupes, led by her most loyal
hound. Your heard them speak of dues, and so know they deny the oldest
truth of our empire: \emph{there are no equals}.''

It was like drinking spring water, to speak words she truly meant
instead of whatever must be said to gain. Relief, that after years of
scuttling in the dark she could raise her true banner.

``There are the rulers and the ruled,'' she said. ``The greater and the
lesser. To deny this is to deny the Gods themselves, for that is how
they made us. And now our Empress bows and scrapes to a conquered
people, ignoring the reality that saw them conquered.''

She let silence ring loudly.

``\emph{Power},'' she hissed.

There were others in foreign lands that would call this ugly truth, but
she spoke to Praesi: the people of altars and pacts, of naked ruthless
ambition. What she offered them now was the song of their ancestors,
sung anew with fresh promise.

``Twenty years ago, we were more powerful than the people of Callow,''
she continued. ``Twenty years ago we were \emph{better} than them, for
beyond all the lies and stories that is the bare truth of Creation: the
powerful own the world.''

A laugh escaped her lips, sharply mocking.

``They call themselves a different breed, these hypocrites, but what is
arrayed before you? Mere force of arms.''

And her people knew steel, that old friend of ambition. How many of
their ancestors had claimed the Tower wielding it?

``In the end, all they are is another movement in the Great Game. The
enemy might be powerful, but that should bring you no fear.''

She leaned forward, hard-eyed.

``Iron sharpens iron, and when we emerge victorious we will be so sharp
a blade as to make the world tremble.''

Akua smiled, a display that should have been beneath her but at this
last pivot of her life was not.

``Glory in this day, sons and daughters of Praes,'' she said. ``The Age
of Wonders is upon you, and though it is great and terrible to behold,
let Creation remember this -- \emph{so are we}.''

And in the wake of her words, as the Legions advanced and flanking
forces sallied, sorcery bloomed. No wild cheers, from the people of the
Wasteland. Acclaim came in the form of death unleashed. A thousand mages
stirred to action, and when they struck it was with the wrath of a
people cheated their destiny. How long had it been, since Calernia last
saw the finest of Praes moved to war? Too long. With every streak of
lighting and storm of flame that balance was redressed, and in the face
of steel a rolling wave of power was sent forth. It would have swept the
legionaries aside like kindling, had it touched them.

It did not, because the Sovereign of the Red Skies had taken the field.

High above a star was born, and it came into the world with a keening
cry. It pulled the sorcery like a withdrawing tide, swept it upwards
until it was filled and a ring of raging sorcery detonated across the
sky with a sound like thunder. The mage lines of the Legions, these
half-mages minted and spent like cheap copper, gave answer. A dozen
rituals burned and massive lances of flame were sent at Akua's bastions,
but what did she care? These were but pale imitations, and the original
stood arrayed against them. Half the lances dispersed within a heartbeat
of being thrown, the formulas torn apart like the half-baked jokes they
were, and the rest were turned against their own side. The fires changed
from lances to beasts, lions and snakes and tigers, and with dull roars
they attacked the advancing legionaries. Dozens died incinerated within
moments, before the Carrion Lord lent the weight of his aspects to the
men and led them through the inferno. \emph{Lead}, Akua thought.
\emph{Conquer}. Not tools for the killing of heroes but for the leading
of armies, and as the Black Knight's mantled came upon them the
legionaries became \emph{more}. Swifter, stronger, indifferent to the
raging flames.

The Diabolist did not strike as the Sixth Legion followed the Carrion
Lord in his sweeping advance, turning her eyes to the sky instead. There
a single silhouette rode a winged steed stolen from Arcadia, cloak of
many colours streaming behind her. An artefact in the making, gathering
weight with every fallen army stitched onto the rest. Already Akua
suspected sorcery would slide over like like water off a duck's back,
and it was still nascent to its true form. Squire would strike at the
heart of the enemy, for that was her nature. Not through aspects, it was
too early for that, but Catherine Foundling had another signature. The
winged steed passed over the ranks of dead manning the entrenched
palisades, deftly avoiding spellfire from the bastions as a simple knife
cut down what appeared to be sacks tied to the sides of the mount. When
the first arrow took flight from impossibly far, flames coating it,
Diabolist almost laughed. There it was. One, two, three -- eight in
whole. Every single sack of goblinfire was ignited while still dropping,
and fell like green rain over the wights. Some reached the bastions
filled with mages and engines, but there were panes of force awaiting.
The goblinfire burned into them, but they were thrown aside and her
sorcerers left untouched. Her general's careful experimentation with the
most dangerous tools of the Legions had paid fruit.

Diabolist returned to her seat, settling against the wooden frame as her
eyes remained fixed on the unfolding battle. Soon. She would have
preferred to let the Legions overcommit, but the Warlock would soon go
on the offensive and he was not to be taken lightly. The Fifteenth, she
saw, was not part of the assault. A reserve, likely kept for when the
walls were breached. It would serve other purpose, but Akua was not
displeased. They would be tied up regardless, removed from the equation.
That was how her enemies would lose, in the end. Dispersed to deal with
half a dozen threats, they would fall one by one. The Sixth Legion
reached the outer field of traps, and Akua's mages triggered their
arrays. Within three heartbeats what had been an empty field was filled
with howling lesser devils.

And then they died.

Diabolist froze, blood going cold. Every single devil summoned by the
arrays had turned into red dust before so much as striking a blow. The
Warlock's doing, it could only be him, but how had he known? He'd have
needed to begin casting before the triggers, which meant\ldots{}
\emph{Someone has studied the lay of our defences}, she realized. And
done so with a great deal of precision. Akua's fingers tightened around
the arms of her chair. It might be assumed that the devils in the
secondary arrays would meet the same fate, and without them serving as a
slowing mechanism for the advance of the Legions then soon her palisades
would be under assault. And with the goblinfire already thinning the
ranks of the dead, they would break. Now. It had to be now.

The Diabolist breathed out and her mind stilled. It'd been seven years
now, since she had separated her soul from her earthly flesh. It had
spared her ugly end in this very city, once, and from that it was likely
her foes had come to assume it was a measure meant for her preservation.
To ensure that even if her body was destroyed, she could invest another
and continue her plans. As it happened, that had merely been a fortunate
consequence. Akua had removed her soul in preparation for
something\ldots{} greater. In the depths of the Ducal Palace, where the
anchor of her great working awaited, a small cylinder of pure obsidian
covered in runes lit up. Inside it was bound her soul, but it was no
mere phylactery. It was a \emph{key}. Her soul touched the untold
millions of dead Deoraithe she had caged, connecting to the greater
weave. All over Liesse runes burned bright, the glare alone melting
stone and shattering wood around them as the greatest ritual Praes had
seen since the days of Triumphant began.

Runic letters formed in front of her, a contract written, and then she
gave the sorcery shape.

On the plains to the flank of the encroaching legions, a dot of yellow
flame formed. In it the contract she had written shone, and the flame
grew. An empty circle was forged, the diameter half a mile wide, and the
yellow flame solidified. Creation \emph{screamed}, screamed in protest
as it was ripped apart forcefully and the Hellgate opened. Not a Lesser
Breach, but a Greater. The first since the fall of Keter, and unlike the
Dead King she would not be forbidden a second. The souls of the
Deoraithe were not spent, merely thinned, and would coalesce again in a
matter of days. It would take her even longer to stabilize her own, but
the true terror of her work was the scale. Distance meant nothing, to
sufficient power. She could open a gate in the heartlands of the
Principate without moving ,if she so wished. Akua Sahelian's army was
the entirety of all the Hells, and as the first devil crossed her gate,
the binding she had written in the flame leashing it to her will, she
laughed. The host at her disposal was without end, and she had crafted
this ritual so it could only ever answer to her. The array was part of
her, as much as any limb or drop of blood.

Waves of wasted power coursed into the escapements she had designed so
very carefully, empowering wards that would have taken hundreds of mages
to use and just like that Liesse\ldots{} disappeared. Forced half a step
out of Creation. There had been a reason that she had chosen the
southern city out of all the governorships she could have secured. The
corpse of the angel, though left behind, had ensured that Liesse was
always slightly \emph{askew} from Creation. Easier to move, and given
clear boundary by the ancient wards surrounding it. And so now the city
was out of reach, save for one entrance she had crafted herself. It lay
at the heart of her fortifications on the plains, and the enemy would
bleed themselves dry trying to take it. All that planning from the
clever generals on the other side yet here they stood now, the forces
meant to assault the walls on the sides utterly useless and the exposed
flank of the army facing endless onslaught.

Hell began pouring out of the Breach, and the Diabolist smiled the smile
of a woman who was going to conquer the world.
