\hypertarget{interlude-congregation-i}{%
\chapter*{Interlude: Congregation I}\label{interlude-congregation-i}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{interlude-congregation-i}} \chaptermark{Interlude: Congregation I}

\epigraph{``Eighty-four: the only sensible solution to a maze is to not
enter the maze.''}{``Two Hundred Heroic Axioms'', author unknown}



His son's back was already a raw, bloody wound but Akil Tanja did not
allow his arm to slow or weaken. Lady Aquiline was watching with those
cold Slayer eyes, and would take even the slightest hint of mercy as an
excuse to cast doubt on the validity of the punishment. The five-tailed
whip -- Blood's Scourge, men called it, one tail for every founding line
-- no longer ripped wounds when it struck Razin's back. All there was to
be ripped open had been, by now: the Lord of Malaga only sent blood
spraying, coating his own arms and face. Only three more, now, until the
last had sounded. Fifty one in total. \emph{Ten for the Pilgrim and ten
for the Champion, those who stood closest to dawn. Ten for the Binder
and ten for the Slayer,} \emph{bloody hands joined in prayer. Ten for
the Brigand, warring alone, and one more after that to atone.} With each
old verse his hand struck again, until at last it was done. Razin
remained kneeling in the snow before the eyes of every captain in the
host, half-naked and bleeding. Akil's eldest son had not wept nor
screamed, and for that the Lord of Malaga felt a twinge of pride. That
he'd remained conscious as well spoke well of his mettle, for the lord
had seen older and harsher been break under the scourge.

Much had been lost, failing to take the streets of Sarcella waiting on
the other side of the river, but perhaps some things gained as well.
Razin could learn, if he lived, and through the savagery that'd just
ended the Lord of Malaga had ensured he would. He glanced the Lady of
Tartessos, standing surrounded by a ring of steel-clad captains, and she
inclined her head in concession after matching his gaze. The undeniable
harshness of the flogging had ensured she could not further contest the
affair, as he'd meant it to. The Lord of Malaga, Akil Tanja of the Grim
Binder's Blood, raised the bloodied scourge he'd tormented his heir with
to the sky and a hush fell over the assembly.

``Fault was incurred straying from the light of the Heavens, and from
that light no succour will be given,'' he called out. ``Through the flow
of ancient blood, let this dishonour be washed away.''

Shouts of approval came from Akil's own captains, for Razin's grit in
suffering the scourge had redeemed him partly in their eyes, but from
the officers of Tartessos there came only cold silence. Those captains
sworn to Holy Seljun -- in practice, to no one at all -- offered only
sparse cheers. Too many of their fellows had taken hard losses fighting
the Army of Callow for them to be willing to lean towards Malaga over
Tartessos openly. Akil passed the red-slick whip to his attendant and
resisted the urge to wipe his son's blood from his hands. Razin, brave
to the end, tried to rise to his feet and walk away on his own terms.
But pain and blood loss had robbed him of the strength and he
immediately stumbled. The Lord of Malaga quickened forward just in time
to catch him, resting his heir's arm on his shoulder and holding him up.

``Father,'' Razin croaked. ``I-''

``Silence,'' Akil ordered. ``Rest.''

He passed on his son to his sworn swords, knowing they would lead him
away to a tent far from prying eyes. Honour and law dictated that no
priest could tend to wounds inflicted by Blood's Scourge, and no doubt
Lady Aquiline would keep watch on Razin to see if either was bent to
ensure his son lived. In this, at least, she had been outplayed. Akil
had in his service a binder who had studied with the mage-healers of
Ashur, and there was no dictate concerning the works of sorcery. An
invitation would be made for one of Lady Aquiline's own sworn men to
observe the proceedings, to ensure she could not even strike through
rumours without dishonouring herself. Akil watched his son being carried
away and mourned for the fool of a boy. He had other children, some who
like him had been born with the Gift and so held true chance to inherit
the Bestowal of their honoured ancestor the Grim Binder. Yet he'd named
Razin heir over them even if he was blind to sorcery, or rather
\emph{because} of it. His eldest son felt that absence sorely, and it
had lit a flame in him to always seek to achieve more. No other of his
get shared that fire, no matter their other talents. But the need to
prove himself had made the boy exceed both his authority and capacity,
in Sarcella. The scars that would mar his back for the rest of his life
might be the lesson he'd needed never to do so lightly again.

Or the failure might break him, and the Lord of Malaga would have to
look to a new heir.

``He was not without courage.''

Lady Aquiline Osena, of the Silent Slayer's Blood, strode past his sworn
swords without a second look and stood by Akil's side to cast a cool
gaze at the same boy she'd tried to have killed today. The Osena were
reputed to be a taciturn lot though Aquiline had the forked tongue of
snake when she put it to use, which was often. The cleverness of a
serpent as well. Before the assembly of captains she'd feigned mercy and
offered for Razin to be punished only by the rod, pretending it mercy
when it was either scheme or murder. Three blows by a wooden rod would
have been the due of every captain in the host, if Akil had not instead
grit his teeth and himself requested the Blood's Scourge. The captains
of Tartessos would have beaten him half to death by themselves,
regardless of his private entreaties. And the consequence of making
those entreaties to his own captains and those sworn only to the Holy
Seljun would have been\ldots{} dangerous. Forbidding his own officers
from striking blows would have been the same as saying the lives of
Tartessos soldiers were worth more than theirs, and the unaligned
captains would have required either heavy bribes or rough intimidation
to agree. The choice would have been, in the end, between effectively
surrendering command of the army to Lady Aquiline or letting his son be
beaten to death in broad daylight.

And now the same woman who'd schemed this would bandy words with him,
when Razin's blood still flecked his father's beard.

``My tolerance has limits, Osena,'' Akil harshly replied.

``As does mine,'' Lady Aquiline said, tone cold as ice. ``Your whelp
lost near four thousand soldiers flailing at the Third Army and nearly
got my right hand killed after stealing the command from her. Do not
pretend this is of my doing, Tanja. The boy should have died for this
outrage and the thorny oaths he passed on to us.''

In Levant, it was an old story that the enmity between the lines of the
Silent Slayer and the Grim Binder found its source in the hatred those
two great heroines had held for each other. Some even said that hatred
came from their struggle over the affections of the first Grey Pilgrim,
though Akil did personally believe that piece of the tale. The truth was
that the bad blood came from over a century of fighting over who should
own the lucrative orchards and mines in the valley of Lusia, which was
located at the edge of the dominions of both Malaga and Tartessos. The
last time there'd been longer than a few months without an honour feud
being fought over the valley was under Yasa Isbili's reign, and in those
days Akil's grandfather had been young. The Lord of Malaga had not been
please to know his own soldiery would fight alongside Lady Aquiline's,
but there'd been no other choice. The Marave of Alava took orders from
no one, those fucking blustering madmen of the Champion's Blood, and the
feuds between the Ifriqui of Vaccei and the Osena of Tartessos made
those of his own line look like playful tussles. The Brigand's Blood saw
no dishonour in poison or ambush, as Lady Aquiline's two younger
brothers had learned the hard way.

``Honour was restored,'' the Lord of Malaga briskly dismissed. ``Why do
you seek me out, Aquiline?''

``Trouble,'' the hard-eyed woman replied. ``I have word from further
south.''

``Then speak it,'' Akil said.

The Lady of Tartessos gave their surroundings and meaningful glance, and
Akil conceded the point with a nod. To his own tent they moved, leaving
swords sworn to either idling in the snow. He made certain to formally
offer her hospitality and have her accept it, lest honour allow her to
use any words spoken here to her advantage.

``There was a battle in southern Iserre,'' Aquiline said, once the
rituals were seen to. ``Hasenbach's twenty thousand marching up from
Tenerife met the Spears of Stygia on the field.''

Ill news and boon ones, all at once. Akil had never counted on Procerans
fools enough to be duped by the League to truly be of use in the battles
to come, and that the Stygian phalanx was not following his army was
pleasing to hear. Slaves they might me, but the Spears of Stygia had a
daunting reputation. If the First Prince's southern army had been
crushed however, the situation in Iserre was fast worsening

``Whose victory?'' he asked.

``Draw,'' Lady Aquiline said. ``The phalanx bloodied the
\emph{fantassins} but Arlesite cavalry routed Stygia's skirmishers and
struck at the back of the Spears. They both limped away with losses but
in good order.''

Akil would have asked her how she knew this, if he considered it even
remotely likely she would tell him. The amount of detail offered was
impressive, nonetheless.

``Where are they limping \emph{to}?'' the Lord of Malaga said.

``And there is the trouble,'' she said. ``The Procerans are now two
weeks' march behind us. They broke through the Stygian defence.''

Akil did not believe that any more than she truly did, by her tone.
Procerans were not unskilled at war, for all that his people liked to
diminish the worth of their blades. Their foot was match for any of
Levant's save perhaps heavy armsmen led by Blood, and as a rule their
cavalry made sport of the Dominion's if not outnumbered. Which Procerans
very rarely were. They were hardly helpless babes, even facing Spears of
Stygia, but cracking the slave-phalanxes would have been a bloody toil
for anyone. If the twenty-thousand had been in shape for an orderly
march this soon, either the Heavens had smiled or the Stygians had
\emph{let} them pass.

``The Tyrant,'' he said, ``is about to turn on us.''

This was not unexpected, for the Bestowed ruler of Helike was a
dangerous lunatic, but the swiftness of that betrayal was inconvenient.
The secret missives detailing the movements of the League's armies and
the assistance of the Helikean cataphracts in hunting down the Army of
Callow had been well worth what was given in return -- reports on the
situation in Salia and the war against the Dead King -- but it now
seemed the offered `secret alliance' was to come to an end. Of the
bargain being revealed, Akil had little worry. He would not have
accepted it otherwise. The Tyrant of Helike was breaking the most
fundamental of the League's laws by treating with foreign powers, as it
was the sole prerogative of his Hierarch. His own allies would turn on
him like hungry dogs, if it came out: he'd been at war with most of them
a year ago, and that kind of slaughter was not easily forgot.

``We had our bargain's worth,'' Lady Aquiline said. ``We've avoided
battle with the League and the cataphracts slowed the Callowan columns.
If my second had been left to her command, the Third Army would still be
contained in Sarcella instead of days away and --''

``Enough,'' Akil said. ``Razin acted dishonourably, and for that was
scourged. But if you intend to insist your Captain Elvera would have
beaten the \emph{Black Queen}, we will settle that claim blades in
hand.''

The Lady of Tartessos smiled sharply.

``Can the Binder's Blood afford another disgrace so soon?'' she said,
hand falling to the pommel of her blade.

Akil was unimpressed. She might be over a decade younger, but he was no
steel-swinger to be made less by such a thing: he was a binder, first
and foremost, from the line of greatest practitioner of that art there
ever was. Age was power gained, not lost.

``Test me, Slayer whelp,'' he smiled back, just as sharp. ``See what
comes of it.''

``A poor host, to offer threat,'' Aquiline mocked.

``A poor guest, to give me cause,'' he said.

A moment passed, and if not for the laws of hospitality he thought she
might have drawn on him. But honour demanded truce, and so truce held.

``We cannot pursue the Callowans,'' Lady Aquiline stiffly said. ``We
must first extricate the Procerans, lest the League kill them all.''

Neither of them had seen the need to plainly speak what they suspected.
If the twenty-thousand soldiers of the Principate had been allowed to
pass, it was so that the armies of the League of Free Cities could
encircle all the other hosts marching across Iserre. Such a strategy
would have been weakened, if the Proceran host remained behind it and
able to strike at its back.

``I would not test the Black Queen without Bestowed at my side,
regardless,'' Akil admitted. ``The Peregrine himself sent warning of her
power.''

The Lady of Tartessos discreetly made the Mark of Mercy with her
fingers, as he did, for while she might be vicious wretch even she knew
the respect due to the living breath of the Pilgrim's Blood. Even out on
the outskirts of the Brocelian Forest it was known that the man who
should be the Holy Seljun of Levant was not the one sitting the Tattered
Throne.

``Then battle is delayed,'' Lady Aquiline stated. ``Lord Marave must
contain the remainder of the Callowans up north and join with the
reinforcements from Salia. After we've secured our own Procerans we can
all of us together force a decisive clash.''

In northern Iserre, Akil Tanja of the Binder's Blood thought. It would
end in the furthest reaches of the principality, near the border with
Cantal.

``Soon,'' the Lord of Malaga said.

``Soon,'' the Lady of Tartessos agreed.

---

The sun was setting over the battlefield, and the Army of Callow was
once more victorious.

\emph{Parts of it, more accurately,} Marshal Juniper thought. The First
and Second Army had been reunited under her overall command, along with
the Order of the Broken Bells, but the other two columns she'd sent off
had yet to arrive. Fortunately, the Legions of Terror under Marshal Grem
had bolstered her numbers to the extent that the forty-thousand strong
of the Lord of Alava would be reluctant to clash with their allied
commands. And this Lord Marave had been, at first, which made the last
fortnight of continuous skirmishes rather interesting. In the distance,
barely visible now that sunlight was dying a slow death, Levantine
archers and slingers were withdrawing in good order. So were the
companies of crossbows and regulars that the Hellhound had tasked with
simply driving them back, knowing by now there was no point in trying to
force a larger battle with the Dominion army. One day out of three, over
the last two weeks, the Levantines had aggressively initiated a skirmish
and refused to withdraw unless either heavy casualties or a large
deployment by the Legions and the Army forced them into retreat.

The Levantine cavalry had attempted a few raids, at the start, before
Marshal Grem nailed them with a munition-sown field and Juniper wiped
out half their exposed skirmishers with a swift charge of the Order of
the Broken Bells. Since that blow the Dominion riders had remained to
guard the flanks of their skirmishers. Until today. Grandmaster Talbot
had sallied out to turn back a charge that very nearly caught Juniper's
supply train by surprise -- she now suspected the Levantines had used a
last night's snow storm to sneak a few hundred horse ahead of her army
and hidden it behind low hills until she approached. In practice there'd
been little fighting, for the moment the knights of Callow hit the
Levantine horse it had scattered without giving much of a fight. But
getting the columns in marching order afterwards had taken most of the
afternoon, which she suspected was what Lord Marave had been willing to
trade around a hundred cavalry for. This was not a strategy of
attrition, she'd made the calculations. In both skirmishes and cavalry
clashes, her force came out ahead in casualties by a moderate but
noticeable margin. Which meant, she thought, that the Dominion was
willing to bleed to slow her down.

\emph{Interesting}, she thought once more.

The orc began the short trek war council tent she'd left to have a look
at the battlefield herself, knowing she would be awaited inside. Banners
flew above the cloth pavilion, more than there would have been a year
ago. Catherine's own, the silver balance on black that soldiers had
taken to calling the \emph{Crown and Sword}. Yet also the cracked bronze
bells of the Order, and the gold Miezan numerals set on Fairfax blue of
the First and Second Army. Lone among those, like a crow among birds,
Lord Black's personal banner flew the wind. Sheer dark, not a speck of
anything else. It was telling, Juniper had thought, that alongside their
own banners the Legions in Procer flew the Carrion Lord's and not the
Tower's. The inside of the pavilion was warmed by braziers and
illuminated by magelights, and for now emptied of the usual swarm of
officers that would usually buzz around seeing to one task or another.
Inside were seated two people, at the long table covered with the map of
central Procer, the only other two who could be considered alongside her
to have a real say in how this campaign was conducted now that the
Deadhand had gone with the Fourth Army.

Marshal Grem One-Eye glanced up at her entrance and inclined his head
the slightest bit. No a tooth bared, of course. As Marshal of Callow she
was a peer, not an inferior or a superior, and Grem was famously
disinclined to the kind of subtle posturing many of her kind fell into
when jostling for dominance among assembly of equals. Mother had spent
years trying to get a snarl out of him and never got more than a rare
disapproving flash of fangs, Juniper remembered, and the pang of sorrow
lingered beyond the span she allowed the memory. The other's eyes
remained on the map, the Lady-Regent of Callow frowning as she tried to
match words on a letter to some marked location in Iserre. Vivienne
Dartwick brushed back a long lock of hair and sighed, the royal seal of
the Kingdom of Callow that hung from her neck moving as she did. Juniper
moved the chair across the table from her and lowered her frame into it,
ignoring the moaning creaks of the wood.

``Milenan must be using a different name than the one our own maps
use,'' the Lady-Regent said. ``Otherwise it makes no sense.''

``Proceran cartography is famously imprecise,'' Marshal Grem said.

``Particularly on the subject of borders,'' Dartwick drily commented.

The other orc's lips quirked, though Juniper was less than amused
herself. Dartwick might be convinced she could squeeze Prince Amadis
Milenan for information as long as the right prize was dangled, but the
Hellhound had doubts on how reliable what they got out of him would be.

``I take it the walk cleared your mind,'' the Lady-Regent suddenly said,
looking up.

``It did,'' the Hellhound grunted. ``I don't think this is about our
columns anymore.''

One-Eye leaned forward with interest, but it wasn't him Juniper needed
to sell on this. Vivienne Dartwick was the one with the last word, these
days, much as it irked the orc to even think it. The fact that Adjutant
had looked to the Callowan for the final word when Juniper had come
forward with the proposal for the Proceran campaign had driven that nail
in hard and loud -- whatever it was that'd lost the Deadhand yet another
hand, it had changed things. And not just, the Hellhound thought, that
she was nearly certain Dartwick no longer had a Name.

``Then what is it about?'' the Lady-Regent asked, eyes considering.

``This isn't attrition,'' Juniper said. ``They're not winning that
fight, not at the casualty rates we're trading.''

``They're exhausting us,'' Marshal Grem noted. ``The Legions have been
on campaign for most a year now, even for veterans morale is fraying.
And a lot of your soldiers are green, Marshal Juniper. They won't hold
up as well as Levantine foot under that kind of pressure. It might not
matter they have less soldiers, if they have more in fighting fit.''

``I considered that,'' she said. ``And there is a sense to it -- delay
giving battle until they've brought us to the brink, and engage only
after my other two columns have been dismantled by their other army.''

``But,'' Dartwick said.

``They're taking too many risks,'' Juniper said. ``That strike with the
cavalry, today? That was an escalation in recklessness. I believe we'll
see the pattern hold up the longer they're in pursuit.''

``The only gain from that was slowing us,'' Marshal Grem calmly said.

There was a pause.

``You believe there's a Proceran army headed our way,'' One-Eye
concluded. ``Through Cantal, most likely, descending toward us following
the lakes. We're being softened up before they pincer us.''

``I believe they want to win the war in Iserre before the Grand Alliance
moves north as a whole,'' Juniper said. ``And to do that they need to
force a decisive battle, soon.''

``The Tyrant of Helike passed information indicating that most of the
principality of Hainaut has fallen to the Dead King,'' Dartwick frowned.
``And the Lycaonese are steadily losing ground.''

The boy-king of Helike had been willing to cut a deal offering quite a
bit of useful information, after failing to kill Juniper. Mostly useful
in how to remain out of the path of the League's armies, but the latest
reports out of Salia and the war against the Dead King were of some
importance. That he'd asked for detailed assessments of the Proceran and
Levantine armies in exchange had been judged an acceptable price by
Dartwick, and Juniper agreed. Anything making him more inclined to
attack the Great Alliance than them was of some benefit.

``Procer can't afford a long war down here,'' Juniper agreed.
``Attrition, defeat in detail -- they'll take too much time. If they're
not done here within two months, there's a decent they lose the northern
Principate. So they need us crushed, quick.''

``And large enough an army to intimidate the League into a truce, if not
a treaty,'' the Lady-Regent murmured.

Marshal Grem peered down at the map, and his face tightened.

``Not one decisive battle,'' he gravelled. ``Two. They smash us up
north, smash General Bagram and the Princekiller further south and then
link up to face the League.''

``We can't keep marching north, then,'' Juniper said. ``We're giving
them exactly what they want.''

``Then what do you suggest?'' Dartwick said, head cocking to the side.

Marshal Grem One-Eye grinned.

``We march back south,'' he said. ``And find out who'll blink first,
between us and the First Prince.''
