\hypertarget{interlude-queens-gambit-offered}{%
\chapter*{Interlude: Queen's Gambit,
Offered}\label{interlude-queens-gambit-offered}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{interlude-queens-gambit-offered}} \chaptermark{Interlude: Queen's Gambit, Offered}

\epigraph{``Do I even need to give the order?''}{Dread Empress Massacre}



``Mobility is how they have survived, Your Most Serene Highness,''
General Altraste said. ``We have easily five times their number on the
field, but divided and constantly forced to march in different
directions. The moment the Legions are trapped we have won the battle.''

The man's long and elaborate mustache moved distractingly as he spoke,
though Cordelia forced herself to ignore it. Diego Altraste had duly
embraced the Arlesite practice of turning his facial hair into a
spectacle, keeping it waxed and curved with near-religious dedication.
The First Prince had always thought the custom made men look like
buffoons, though it would not be diplomatic to voice as much. Her court
in Salia had scrupulously observed the latest fervours of southern
nobility, as it would have been too easy to dismiss her as a barbarous
Lycaonese otherwise. She herself rarely partook. A First Prince set
fashion, they did not bow to it. Watching dainty Alamans ladies weave
their hair into Rhenian war braids after she'd adopted the style for a
few months had been a rare source of amusement in a year that had
provided precious little of that.

``I am aware of the numbers, general,'' she replied. ``And of how they
have failed to lead to victories, no matter how oft repeated to me.''

``I understand you are displeased by the fall of Lutes,'' the man
delicately said.

Quite the understatement, that. Iserre's northern border was not a
heavily armed one, as its ruling family's relations with Cantal had been
more than cordial for decades. Their lines had intertwined so often it
was a popular jest in Procer that to split the difference between the
royalty of Cantal and Iserre one would need a very sharp knife. The
Carrion's Lord descent into the Principality of Iserre had only one
sharp obstacle, the old fortress-town of Lutes. A remnant of the days
when ancient Arlesite tribes had pushed deep into Alamans territory,
Lutes was a spit of rock with tall wall and taller towers. One that
boasted fewer than ten thousand souls, but unlike most of Iserre the
town had been garrisoned. Bandits had tried to take it more than once in
the past, and so Prince Amadis had found it prudent to station troops
there after the Great War. Disaffected fantassins were but a hungry day
away from banditry, after all, and there'd been quite a few of them in
Procer after Cordelia ascended the throne.

None of the First Prince's commanders had kept to the illusion that
Lutes would hold indefinitely, but there had been an expectation that it
would slow down Praesi advance into Iserre. Perhaps long enough for the
Levantine reinforcing army to make shore southwards enough it would be
able to reinforce the gathering forces in the capital of Iserre,
preventing its loss to the Legions. Instead the town had fallen
literally overnight. The Carrion Lord had struck bargain with bandits,
who'd infiltrated the fortress and opened the gates to his forces after
night fell in exchange for the lion's share of the loot. The defenders
were caught unawares and half-asleep, bloody massacre ensued and when
dawn rose the Legions of Terror were marching south once more. Worse,
the fact that the Black Knight had kept to his terms with the bandits
had spread across the entire region. The temptation of treachery would
only deepen, and the Silver Letters were not responding near swiftly
enough for her tastes.

``I know little of matters of war,'' Cordelia said. ``Yet it occurs to
me that with the fall of that fortress, we have effectively lost the
northern half of the principality. They cannot occupy it, of course, but
more importantly we cannot \emph{defend} it. And now you come to me with
a scheme that involves abandoning yet another city to the enemy.''

That this conversation even needed to be had was infuriating. A mere
sixteen thousand men had escaped the Red Flower Vales to wage war on the
greatest nation of Calernia's surface and yet the last four months had
brought only word of defeat after defeat. Exiled vagabonds were burning
a swath through the heartlands of Procer, which was a disaster in too
many ways to count. Cordelia knew better than anyone how fragile the
Principate truly was, at the moment. The land had not yet truly
recovered from two decades of civil war, though she'd had few other
choice than to wage yet another conflict -- it would have been
near-impossible to rebuild if the mass of fantassins left from the Great
War were still there to agitate. Cantal being made a ruin had been a
heavy blow, and if Iserre was put to the torch as well would mean
starvation in the south-east come winter. The bloody Praesi were burning
every granary they couldn't carry, after all, years of accumulated grain
going up into smoke.

The most aggravating part was, she thought, that she still had armies to
field but that she could not send them after the Black Knight. Now that
Catherine Foundling had made it clear the Dead King's assault was
imminent and not months away, the host under Uncle Klaus had to hurry
north at the expense of all else. The northern invasion force under
Princess Malanza was already marching towards Cleves, but the woman had
made it clear that the Callowan campaign had left the army a wreck. The
Black Queen had apparently assassinated almost every professional
officer in it, then butchered her way through a significant portion of
the most reputable fantassin companies. Malanza had described her host
as having \emph{more generals than lieutenants}, and the First Prince
did not need to be a seasoned veteran to understand the dangers of that.
If Malanza held tall walls, she might weather the storm long enough for
Uncle Klaus to arrive. If she did not make it to Cleves swiftly enough,
the shores of the Tomb would fall and the Dead King would gain solid
foothold in Procer.

The last significant Proceran force was guarding the border with the
League of Free Cities, and it could not be moved. The political
consequences of that would be dire enough -- if Cordelia could no longer
offer protection the Princess of Tenerife would seek another patron and
further damage the First Prince's position in the Highest Assembly --
but the strategic ones were worse. The League had yet to declare war,
but it had mustered its armies. The moment the twenty thousand soldiers
in Tenerife left the south became wide open to invasion. She'd attempted
correspondence with the Hierarch to probe intentions and six months past
the man had finally deigned to reply. Cordelia almost wished he hadn't.
The missive had been three pages long, most of which castigating the
notion of inherited rule as Wicked Tyranny, Procer itself as A Rapacious
Pack Of Foreign Oligarchs and her suggestion of formal truce talks as
Treason Against The Will Of The People. Which people in particular,
she'd noted, he had not specified. He'd at least recognized her title of
First Prince, as it was the result of an election.

The Tyrant of Helike had sent a secret missive along the other letter,
swearing eternal friendship and making assurances that he'd increased
the size of Helike's army twofold as a `purely defensive measure'. He
went on writing of his deep regrets for the recent civil war in the
League, which he was apparently trying to cast himself as mournful of
after single-handedly starting and winning. The First Prince had not
known until then it was possible for someone's calligraphy to come
across as blatantly insincere, but her horizons had since been expanded.

``Your Highness,'' General Altraste said, ``may I be frank?''

``I expect all my officers to offer me truth, no matter how
unpalatable,'' Cordelia replied, and meant it.

``If we try to defend the city with every force at our disposal, we may
very well still lose it,'' he said. ``And that defeat would be the end
of Iserre. I will not pretend the plan I offer is pleasant to behold: it
will require ugly sacrifice. But if we do not cut the rot before it
spreads, it is not only Iserre we risk losing.''

Cordelia did not answer. She looked out the windows instead, watched
Salia below her. The tall bell towers of the many churches, the mansions
and palaces of royalty. The people still filling every nook and cranny
of the largest city on Calernia when autumn was painting leaves red and
gold. She thought of a cold night in Rhenia, when she'd been seven and
come across her mother drinking alone in the hall. Mother had still been
half a goddess in her eyes, back then, implacable and undaunted. She'd
asked her why she looked so sad. \emph{Sometimes survival is an ugly
affair, my sweet}, Mother had told her. It would be years until she
learned that her mother had just ordered a pass collapsed and every
village beyond it abandoned to the ratlings. Too many soldiers had gone
to Hannoven to aid in turning back the warbands come with spring thaw.
Hundreds of Rhenians had been left to die to tooth and claw, abandoned
in the cold. The thousands that would have died had the ratling made it
through the pass were spared.

``Do what needs to be done, general,'' Cordelia Hasenbach quietly said.

---

``Interesting,'' Amadeus said.

The others insisted on treating him like he was made of glass, yet for
all that his body had become pale and sickly his mind had not dulled.
Spreading an aspect across sixteen thousand soldiers -- closer to
fifteen now, he corrected -- exhausted him to the extent he could barely
stand, most days. Being carried like on a litter an invalid had been a
private humiliation, though he was not one to let petty pride get in the
way of necessity. He was currently more useful as a logistical asset
than a field one. Still, the sweat and shivers had been an unpleasant
surprise. He'd not known sickness in a very long time, and this was
perhaps as close as a Named could come to it.

``We won't get to plunder a waystation twice,'' Scribe said. ``The
Circle of Thorns is recalling all assets in the region and the Silver
Letters are withdrawing everything but observers.''

Those two organizations were, respectively, the foreign and domestic
intelligence apparatuses of the Principate. The Silver Letters
occasionally also dabbled in assassination or a spot of sabotage in the
past, though under Hasenbach they're curtailed those activities to
Praesi agents only. He had great respect for the Circle of Thorns,
personally. They were one of the most skillful and well-funded spy
networks in the history of Calernia, and had been pursuing Procer's
interests abroad with regular success for centuries. It also operated
with only middling oversight from the throne: even at the height of the
Proceran civil war, the Eyes of the Empire had been forced to fight them
tooth and nail for every success in the Free Cities. Their information
was, as a rule, reliable and delivered to the appropriate individuals in
a timely manner. The Silver Letters, on the other hand, had been made
sport of by Imperial agents for decades. They had connections with the
gutter and the servants as well as the ruthlessness to properly use
them, but they lacked the professional training and arcane tools the
Eyes of the Empire had gained since Alaya climbed the Tower. Their
internal squables had been exploited by Scribe's agents with relish,
though only ever through careful intermediaries -- they despised the
Eyes to the bone.

``It does not matter,'' Amadeus finally said. ``From what we have
learned we can deduce more, and sooner or later we will succeed at
getting our hands on royal correspondence.''

The household guard of Cantal had burned their ruler's personal papers
when it became evident the capital would fall, which was good and clever
service yet somewhat inconvenient to the Black Knight. He'd personally
commended the captain responsible and offered the man an officer's
commission in the Legions, though sadly he'd refused. Out of respect
he'd allowed the captain poison instead of the blade, though the
execution had been a given. Amadeus was fond of talent, yet not so fond
he would leave it in the service of his foes. Grem strode into the tent
moments later, parting the flap and letting in the scent of smoke and
blood. Two villages had been sacked today, though legionaries had only
ever marched on one. It remained a matter of great amusement to Amadeus
that the Proceran campaign was yielding a greater harvest of traitors
than the civil war in Praes ever had.

There was reason to it, of course. The fresh auxiliaries gained by his
host were bandits who'd been at odds with local authorities long before
he ever came, and who intended to melt back into the countryside with
their loot the moment the Legions left. His army was seen as a passing
storm here, an opportunity to be exploited. When he'd fought to put
Alaya on the throne it had been with the stated intent to crush every
significant Praesi power block underfoot and have them remain in that
state for the foreseeable future. That he'd been a Duni backed largely
by orcs and goblins in the initial stretch of the war had only added to
the perception that Alaya's supporters were hungry outsiders that would
throw away all old privileges and influences in order to rise. Few
Praesi of authority had been willing to lend their aid to a faction so
estranged from traditional avenues of power, not until it became
exceedingly clear it would win the war.

``Heard you found the letters of some Proceran spies,'' Grem said,
striding towards a seat.

The one-eyed orc glanced at him first, lips thinning in dismay. Amadeus
kept his irritation off his face. He was exhausted, not dying.

``A waystation belonging to the Circle of Thorns,'' Eudokia specified.
``The letters were meant to be carried to Salia at least a week back,
but our advance disrupted the journey.''

``News from abroad, then,'' Grem grunted. ``Shame. Knowing what the
Silver Letters are up to would be a great deal more useful. That's twice
we ran into bandit groups fighting over succession, now, and I don't
think it's a coincidence.''

``Damage control by Hasenbach, most likely,'' Amadeus agreed. ``Yet
their correspondence has been\ldots{} enlightening. Klaus Papenheim is
on the march.''

The orc's hairless brows rose.

``He's finally willing to chase us?'' he said. ``I didn't think his
niece's position in the Assembly was that weak. Would Iserre falling
really unseat her?''

``He's marching north, old friend,'' Amadeus said. ``The letters also
mentioned that an eye needed to be kept on the Stairway in case Duchess
Kegan decided to raid into Arans. It was deemed unlikely -- and I agree
-- but the implication that there was need of a watch at all is
telling.''

``It means Malanza's not going to be holding the pass from their end,''
Grem said. ``That's their two largest field armies on the move.''

He paused.

``\emph{Shit},'' he finally said. ``You're sure?''

``We are,'' Eudokia said.

``Then the entire north is about to be hip-deep in dead men,'' Grem
bluntly said. ``I can't think of another reason for Hasenbach to pull
out. The Iron Prince only let us burn our way through the heartlands
without lifting a finger because he judged toppling Callow as quick as
possible was how the war would be turned around. He wouldn't leave the
Vales if he had any another choice, not after committing for so long.''

``That is my assessment as well,'' Amadeus said. ``And it means our
horizons have just expanded a great deal.''

``Hainaut's the longer coast, and it's a maze of cliffs and passes,''
Grem continued, thinking out loud. ``No, Malanza won't head there. Your
apprentice ripped through her officers, that army's running on fumes and
fantassins. If it's spread out for coastal defence half of it will bolt
when the Dead King comes out. She'll head for Cleves. It's where Keter
aims for, whenever they try to land a force, and it's fortified almost
as heavily as a Callowan city. She'll count on the walls to hold the
army together and wait until Papenheim makes it north to contest
Hainaut.''

``Both those forces will not return south for years,'' the Black Knight
said. ``That leaves them conscripts and Levantines. The army in Tenerife
is unlikely to budge so long as the League doesn't declare for anyone.''

``The Dominions has two field armies of thirty thousand,'' Grem said.
``I'm not worried around the one going around the lakes through
Salamans, it's not going to pursue unless we tweak their nose. But if we
scrap with the one that just made shore, this campaign is finished.''

Amadeus had, in a rare flight of fancy, called this war an invasion when
speaking to Ranker. It was not, practically speaking. No territory taken
had been held, and this entire affair could more accurately be termed a
large-scale raid. One pursued in a manner that would shake the First
Prince's position in the Highest Assembly while also aiming to damage
the Principate's ability to wage war past winter, but those were deeper
strategic pursuits. Tactically, the Legions of Terror were behaving as a
roving force avoiding field battles and attacking only soft positions.
Raiders, by any definition. That the countryside and cities had been
emptied by the massive conscription preceding the Tenth Crusade allowed
Amadeus' army to draw on its comprehensive siege experience to breach
and sack cities a more traditional force would avoid, but that ability
should not be mistaken for actual fighting strength. If the Legions
engaged a Levantine army outnumbering them twofold, even a victory would
be so costly his forces would be effectively knocked out of the war.
That would be the beginning of a death spiral, Amadeus knew: without the
strength necessary to forage his army would begin to starve, further
slowing and weakening it until even thinned city garrisons would be
enough to stamp it out.

``We know for a fact they've slowed down to a crawl,'' Scribe said.
``Even if they began a forced march tonight we should be able to take
the city of Iserre and withdraw before they arrive.''

``It's a tempting target,'' Amadeus noted. ``The food stores would keep
us fed through winter easily and the treasury would allow us to
significantly expand the ranks of our auxiliaries. Prince Milenan's
capital was spared by the civil war: it's one of the wealthiest cities
in Procer at the moment.''

``My very point,'' Grem said. ``If it's that good a prize, why is
Hasenbach botching its defence so badly?''

``I suspect it is beyond her control,'' Scribe said. ``The Dominion has
expressed doubt that the terms of alliance signed cover the defence of
Procer itself.''

``They can't seriously expect that to hold up,'' the orc growled.
``They'd be stabbing an ally in broad daylight. If they screw another
crusader in the middle of a crusade their reputation is \emph{dust}.''

``Eudokia is of the opinion that they're shaking down the First Prince
for concessions,'' Amadeus said. ``Letting Iserre burn would make her
fold quick enough, no matter her objections.''

The orc's sole eye turned to him.

``And you?''

``Six months ago, the Ashuran committee liaising with the Grand Alliance
formally requested access to the Thalassocracy's most accurate maps of
Praes as well as the tally of trade goods compiled by its merchant
captains,'' Amadeus said. ``There can be no doubt that the signatories
are already debating how best to partition Praes after the crusade.
There are also known proponents of the extermination of all humans
within Imperial borders in the Dominion's upper ranks, though they
remain a loud minority for now. They still represent a significant
portion of the Levantine armies we are facing at this very moment, which
grants them leverage. The First Prince is currently losing control of
the Highest Assembly, desperately in need of reinforcements to face both
us and the Dead King and it's an open secret she fought against the
results of the conclave in Salia and lost. If Levant was ever going to
turn the screws on her for concessions, now is the time. All the stars
are aligned.''

``Queen Catherine is also still unaccounted for,'' Scribe said. ``In a
way she's the most immediate threat of all. She could appear on the
outskirts of Salia with the entire Army of Callow, and even if the Augur
warns Hasenbach in advance her armies cannot magically cross half of
Procer to arrive in time. Every single plan they make has to take that
under consideration.''

``They can fight a better war than this,'' Marshal Grem One-Eye said.
``I won't deny anything you said, but you both know I'm speaking the
truth. There's the scent of hubris in the air, Black. I don't like it.''

``So there is,'' Amadeus murmured. ``I suppose there's only one question
left to ask, then.''

``And what's that?'' the orc said, eye narrowed.

``Shall we roll the dice one more time, old friend?'' the Carrion Lord
smiled, slow and thin and utterly cold.
