\hypertarget{chapter-15-bravura}{%
\chapter{Bravura}\label{chapter-15-bravura}}



\epigraph{``And so my reign ends as it began, with fewer allies than stab
wounds.''}{Alleged last words of Dread Emperor Pernicious, the Imperiled}



``Tell me about those fences,'' I said.

Hierophant had gained back a few pounds, enough that his thinned frame
looked full again. How he'd managed that on army rations I had no idea,
but the mystery was not a fresh one: he'd gone through both the
Rebellion and the Arcadian Campaign without losing weight. I'd been
half-convinced that it was a self-perception anchored deep enough that
his Name enforced it, until he'd wasted away in the Observatory. He'd
still come a long way from the bespectacled boy I'd once known. These
days he looked, well, \emph{dangerous}. There might have been little
muscle to his frame, but he stood tall -- taller than me, but then who
didn't? -- and the long trinket-woven braids going down his back leant
him a certain panache. The black eye cloth covering his glass eyes
matched the permanently dishevelled black robes that were the only thing
he bothered to wear anymore, not that he'd even been prone to indulging
in fashionable clothes. The power he now so casually wielded clung to
him even when unused, half-felt wisps of sorcery never quite gone.
Masego had been perhaps the most destructive of my companions even back
when he'd been the Apprentice, but he'd rarely seemed anything but
awkward and a little pedantic when he wasn't casting. Now, though? He
looked like the kind of sorcerer you didn't walk away from fighting. It
suited him.

``A lecture on the nature of priestly power is out of the question, I
suppose,'' the dark-skinned man sighed.

``Ask me again when an army isn't marching towards us,'' I said.

``That's almost never,'' he muttered under his breath. ``Very well.
Though weaker -- diluted, according to some theories -- than the Light
we have seen heroes wield, the essential nature of priest miracles is
the same. That is the stuff these fences were made of.''

``Can it kill soldiers?'' I asked.

``No,'' he shook his head. ``As a reflection of oaths taken, the miracle
should not be able to hurt anything living.''

Well, that was something. From the way the fences had cut straight
through hooks and rope, I'd have to assume it could wreck armour and
fortifications if they hit at the right angle. That was\ldots{}
problematic. We'd raised the palisades in the first place because we
needed them as an equalizer for crusader numbers. If they could just cut
them down at will, that measure was gone.

``Next time the priests try the fences, can you just hit them directly
to interrupt?'' I asked.

Reluctantly, the mage shook his head.

``Mass sorcery at great distance needs a scrying tangent to be aimed
properly,'' he said. ``Unless it is fired blindly. Priests, as you well
now, disrupt scrying.''

So, unless Malanza blundered by putting all her priests in our field of
vision and clustered together smothering the fences in the crib wasn't
an option. This just kept getting better, didn't it?

``Then we need to have an immediate answer ready for when they do
appear,'' I said flatly. ``I'll need you with me for the brawl, so the
mage lines will have to handle it.''

I flicked a questioning glance at him at that, inviting him to pass
judgement. I heard his left eye twist inside his skull towards me, but
he did not reply. Right, subtle cues. Not his strength.

``\emph{Can} they handle it?'' I asked.

``They can cast the Ripper without me,'' Masego agreed, and elaborated
when my eyebrow rose. ``The red light constructs we used for the second
exchange.''

``That's\ldots{}'' I sighed. ``I need a little more than that, Masego.
Would wards work?''

``Against miracles, they are mostly useless,'' Hierophant noted. ``The
spectrums are too different, there is little overlap. We would have a
great deal more success targeting their mages.''

``Priests wouldn't screw with that?'' I frowned.

``Unlikely,'' he said. ``Remember the precision they formed those
shields with, and at such distance. That cannot be obtained without
scrying or other means of relayed direct sight. Having priests among
them would make that impossible, implying the mages stand alone. I'll
add that whoever designed that strategy has a keen understanding of all
forces involved, which is quite rare even among Praesi. Rather
impressive.''

So either they had a very skilled wizard on the other side, or the Grey
Pilgrim had contributed to Malanza's battle plans. I hoped it was the
latter, because the enemy had enough advantages already without having
someone even remotely in Masego's league to field.

``Order them to target the mages first,'' I finally said. ``The fences
will be trouble enough on their own, we can't afford for wizards to give
them additional staying power. Inform Juniper's staff I gave the order,
too, I don't want them in the dark.''

The blind man nodded, idly tracing a circle of silver light in the air
with a fingertip and inserting a scrying spell within. I looked on in
interest for a moment, since that was definitely a new trick. I'd been
under the impression there needed to be a physical anchor for scrying,
but apparently Hierophant had figured out a cheat. I left him to it,
leaning my elbows against the top of the palisade. The two of us were on
a wooden walkway, between two rising slopes where Pickler's repeating
scorpions would be pushed up when the enemy got close enough. We had
thirty of those overall, a massive amount of siege weaponry even by
Legion standards. It meant we were light on combat sappers, since those
same soldiers had to attend the engines instead, but sharpers and
charges weren't going to win us this battle. Not against fifty thousand
hero-led Procerans. And, speaking of the devils. The crusader host had
lumbered forward, its three infantry waves advancing slowly as the
cavalry wings retreated to cover their flanks. In front of the first
wave, though, the same seven silhouettes I'd glimpsed earlier were
pulling ahead. Heroes. Three sword and board, I noted. Men and woman.
Another I recognized from a previous fight, the same priest who'd
engaged me as backup for the Saint. No sign of Two Knives or the
red-robed mage, but I knew better than to assume a vicious crippling had
been enough to keep the heroine I'd mangled out of the fight.

Hopefully she'd already had all three of her aspects, because if she
hadn't she'd likely popped one out since designed to screw me over.
Clearing out the heroes that had come into Callow over the winter had
taught me that a hero having an undefined aspect just meant that the
Heavens had the means to teach their hatchet men a trick to counter one
of my own. They were rarely subtle about it, too, which was kind of
insulting. It would have been polite to be less obvious in their
attempts to stack the fight for their side. Of the last remaining three
heroes, I recognized another. The man with the hammer I'd ignored when
riding with the Hunt. The other two were unknowns: one muscly,
barefooted woman with a staff that could mean she was either a sort of
priest or fighter. And a boy that could not have been older than
sixteen, with a greatsword propped over his shoulder that was nearly as
tall as he was. And didn't wear a helmet, because of course he fucking
didn't.

``It is done,'' Masego said, coming to stand by my side again.

I nodded slowly.

``You remember our training?'' I asked.

``Healers die first,'' he recited dutifully. ``Then practitioners, then
I must constrain the enemy to ease your task or prevent outside
intervention.''

``It doesn't look like they have a mage with them, but that just means
they're holding the man back in reserve,'' I said. ``Watch for that. And
if the Saint of Swords ever tries to close distance with you\ldots{}''

``Flee,'' he completed. ``I must never let her be closer than ninety
feet.''

``And that's the conservative estimate,'' I grunted. ``She didn't even
use an aspect to smack me around, Masego. She starts getting serious,
don't think in victory terms. Escape and containment, while we gather
massive enough a response to force her back.''

``You sound sceptical of our ability to kill her,'' Hierophant noted,
sounding surprise.

My fingers clenched.

``I am,'' I admitted. ``We're good, Zeze. Better than good. But her and
the Pilgrim? They have decades of experience and accumulated power on
us, and their Gods aren't shy about putting a finger to the scale. Don't
think of it as us tumbling Summer again, because against Summer we had
levers and rules. We're the green heroes taking a swing at your father
and Black, in this story. We get cocky for even a moment and\ldots{}''

I did not elaborate.

``Heads, pikes, the usual,'' Masego said. ``I shall endeavour
prudence.''

We stayed in comfortable silence after that, watching the enemy advance.

``I think that I dislike them,'' he finally said, after a long moment.
``These crusaders.''

I snorted.

``Well, they \emph{are} at war with us,'' I said.

The mage shrugged.

``So were Summer and Akua Sahelian, yet I never could must much
antipathy,'' Masego said. ``Even towards the Exiled Prince and his
mercenaries. They were only creatures acting as their nature demanded,
and that is a blameless thing.''

``Is it really?'' I murmured. ``Just because something comes naturally
to you doesn't make it right.''

``A very Callowan view,'' Hierophant said. ``Your people seek to overlay
Creation with a notion of objective morality, which always struck me as
rather absurd. If the teachings of any of the Gods were fully correct,
Creation would not exist at all. It is, after all, a debate.''

``The Gods can say whatever they like,'' I muttered. ``The truest thing
Black ever said to me was that, in the end, only we are responsible for
our choices. Taking marching orders from Above or Below is just
abdicating the rights your own life. The Book of All Things has this
lovely little verse about that, you know. Choice. But is it really that
if the only two answers are already picked out for you?''

``Free will,'' Masego smiled. ``You always did obsess over that. I'm not
certain such a thing can truly exist, Catherine, not in a world that was
\emph{created}.''

``You're the one who wants to open up Creation to see how it works,'' I
pointed out. ``When you were in a fugue, after becoming Hierophant, you
said something I still remember. \emph{The godhead is a trick of
perspective}.''

``I believe it still,'' he admitted. ``Now more than ever, as I have
seen what became of you. How Winter's mantle alienated you from mortal
existence. To think as a God, I suspect, is to be a God.''

``And you'll try to get there,'' I said. ``Seems meaningless, if it's
not your choice.''

``Perhaps I was simply meant to attempt it,'' Masego mused. ``Because it
is my nature to do so.''

``Does it really matter?'' I asked. ``Whether or not that was writ in
you from the start. All we can do is act.''

``Perhaps not,'' he murmured. ``And so I find myself disliking these
crusaders.''

``They killed a lot of my men,'' I said quietly, fingers forming a fist.
``And we're only just getting started.''

``Death is death,'' Masego dismissed. ``But the way you carry yourself
now, as if they put stones on your shoulder? This I hold against them.''

I bumped my hip against his side affectionately, then leant against his
shoulder. He allowed it without comment, which was as close as he'd ever
come to openly returning the affection. I'd never quite get him, would
I? How in the same sentence he could display both kindness and utter
apathy.

``It's going to be a long war,'' I whispered.

``And we will win it,'' Hierophant said with bedrock certainty.

``And what has you so sure of that?''

He laughed quietly.

``Perhaps it is simply my nature,'' he said. ``Go now, Catherine. Go and
follow your own.''

I moved away. Closing my eyes, I breathed in and out. Seven heroes, huh?
Time to see if we could thin that herd a bit.

Opening my eyes, I unsheathed my sword and leapt down.

---

When fighting a group heroic Named, Black had once told me, two manners
of adversaries could be found. The first was a proper heroic band.
Should that be the case, coordination and weaving of skill should be
expected. \emph{Against a band, either dispose of the healer first or
place an instantly lethal blow against the leader figure.} That would
allow me to either inflict attrition or break coherence. The second kind
of adversary was a mere grouping of heroes. No leader, no teamwork
beyond the obvious, limited coordination. \emph{Rarer}, my teacher had
assessed. \emph{Mostly seen in large scale continental wars or when an
overwhelmingly powerful villain emerges, like Triumphant or the Dead
King.} I was neither the most dreadful of empresses nor the ancient
abomination that lurked within Keter, but here I was anyway. Fighting
seven heroes as the host of Procer advanced behind them. They had been
ordered to be be prudent, I grasped. Three advanced towards me: one
sword and board, the war hammer and the greatsword. Behind them stood
the barefoot staff-wielder, and further back the last two with shields
were flanking the healer. \emph{This isn't about power}, I thought.
\emph{Power is the crutch of Named. Clarity and skill will win ever
time.}

``I don't suppose,'' I said, ``that we'll have a round of
introductions?''

The hammer-wielder chuckled.

``What worth are those to the dead?'' he replied.

``That,'' I said, ``will make for a \emph{very} ironic tombstone.''

I let them strike first. The pair with the large weapons went for the
flanks as the shield-bearer slowed to box me in. Eyes on him, I let my
senses bloom. No Winter, just the inherent abilities that came with my
body being a fucking construct. The mantle would remain inert as long as
possible, since I was pretty sure the real reason the Saint and the
Pilgrim had yet to show was that they were trying to bait out a Winter
trance so I wouldn't think of retreat when they \emph{did} arrive. The
hammer went for my legs, and not even a heartbeat later the greatsword
whistled towards my torso. Board arcs both, that they could readjust if
I went forward. I did not. The thing with large weapons was that, once
you'd committed to a blow, there was a heartbeat where it was very
difficult to move. Where the muscles were busy dragging that large chunk
of steel around. I moved towards the greatsword, adjusting to the arc
and ducking under at the last moment. The boy wielding it grunted,
shifted his footing and swung backward at the height of my hips. Without
missing a beat I slid under, letting a hammer blow pass through the air
where I'd been, and in a crouch passed behind the hero as my blade
whipped out. His greaves did not cover the back of his leg. I rose
smoothly from the slide as he was forced to kneel down, his tendons
cleanly cut. Light bloomed inside the wound.

There was a heartbeat where I could have thrust the tip of my sword
through the unprotected back of his neck, but I knew better. The sword
and board man was already rushing me, shield angled up as he swung his
blade. I did not parry, instead throwing myself on the shield and
rolling over it, landing behind him. It threw his footing, and when the
hammer-wielder tried to whack me I smoothly kicked the back of the the
shield-wielder's knee and pushed his back. The hammer struck him in the
shoulder, shattering steel like it was chalk. A curse, a scream, but I
had more important matters to deal with. The first reserve was about to
cut into the dance. The barefoot woman was stalking towards me, centre
of mass supernaturally steady as she did. Ugh. Not a caster or a monk,
then, a brawler. Wood or not, if that staff hit me I suspected I
wouldn't enjoy it. Light bloomed, and the shield-wielder's broken
shoulder snapped back into place. Without looking, I could feel all the
moving parts. Hammer man was rushing my back, weapon already hoisted.
Greatsword boy was going around to my left, warier now that he'd had a
taste. And the one with the staff was smiling serenely as she advanced.
I spat to the side.

``All right,'' I said. ``Let's have another go.''

I waited until sorcery bloomed in the distance to move. A whirlwind of
flame erupted around the healer and his bodyguards, though before my
view was blocked I saw light flare on the shield of one of the heroes.
No kill there, but it should keep them busy for a bit. Masego was only
getting started anyway. Hammer-wielder struck first. I knew the angle of
it without looking and half-stepped out of the arc, but the man laughed.

``\textbf{Broaden},'' he said.

The war hammer tripled in size, and there was no avoiding all of that.
My shoulder was clipped and it fucked with my footing, keeping me in
place just long enough for the greatsword boy to strike.

``\textbf{Pierce},'' a woman's voice spoke from behind me.

Power howled. Ah, they were trying to bury me through concentrated
might. Shame they'd not trained together sufficiently. It was a tricky
thing, to keep myself in the way of both the thrusting staff point and
the greatsword until the last moment. A handhold of ice formed just
above my free hand I used it to hoist my whole body up, letting the
golden-wreathed wooden staff impact the greatsword. It broke like it was
made of porcelain, but I didn't get to enjoy that for long. The
hammer-wielder was still on my ass, smashing down with his oversized
chunk of metal as if the weight hadn't changed along with the size. I
dropped the handhold, and the fall bought me a heartbeat as the swing
followed me down. It was enough. I rolled to the side as the ground
shook and chunks of wet soil went up in the air. The staff-wielder's
naked foot caught me in my armoured chin but I felt the godsdamned steel
\emph{bend} under the impact as it sent me rolling. Fuck. That was one
was dangerous, not because she was more competent but because she was
\emph{quicker} and quick was what my survival depended on.

The storm of fire winked out as I got back on my feet, all four heroes
in the fray rushing me. A glance told me the healer and his protectors
were completely untouched, but a moment later spikes of lightning began
hammering down on their position one after another and just like that we
were back in business. I watched my enemies approach, their angles and
their speeds. Greatsword boy, I noted with amusement, was wielding the
remaining half of his weapon like some sort of oversized cleaver. He
didn't look all that happy about it. I circled slightly to the right,
putting the hammer man between myself and the staff-wielder. And that
meant\ldots{} \emph{Ah, there you are.} Sword and board feinted high and
I took him up on it. Even as he flicked his blade down towards my
throat, I turned my parry into a swing towards the side of his neck. His
shield went up, and that killed his field of vision. Greatsword hero had
to get close, now that he'd lost his reach, and it was not his
specialty. I flicked to the side and caught his extended wrist, twisting
his sharply so he was forced to stand in the way of sword and board's
attack.

``\textbf{Resist},'' the boy hissed out.

Light spread across him in the blink of an eye and I dropped him before
it could touch my fingers. The other hero's blade bounced off
unceremoniously. While the younger one tried to pivot so he was facing
me again, I followed his movement smoothly and lunged at sword and
board's throat while he withdrew. The shield came to knock away the
blade again, but that hadn't been what he needed to watch out for. My
wrist flicked, a knife dropped into my armoured palm and I rammed it
through his eye from the open angle. Behind him I heard the
hammer-wielder curse, since he didn't have a clear shot at me. Even as
the hero I'd knifed dropped and began twitching death throes, my ears
flicked. I hastily backpedalled as the staff-wielder leapt over the
fight, landing where my shoulders had been a moment before. The wood
whipped out, and my hasty parry was poorly angled. It went straight
through my guard, denting my plate and tossing me away for the second
time. Well, at least one was down and the healer still busy. Unless he
could -- no, I wasn't even going to finish that thought. I dragged
myself upright and smiled at the barefoot woman.

``Round three?'' I offered.

Her staff rose. I almost missed it, because it wasn't flashy. It was
just a low ripple, a murmur of power. But my senses were no longer a
mortal's, so my eyes flicked to the hero I'd killed. At his side knelt
an old man in grey robes, who gently took out the knife. He then passed
a hand over the bloodied face, murmuring a prayer. The hero's eyes
opened and he let out a ragged gasp. There was no longer any wound on
his face. The Grey Pilgrim rose to his feet gingerly, and offered me a
rueful smile.

``Round three,'' he agreed.
