\hypertarget{interlude-west-ever-pursuing}{%
\chapter*{Interlude: West, Ever
Pursuing}\label{interlude-west-ever-pursuing}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{interlude-west-ever-pursuing}} \chaptermark{Interlude: West, Ever Pursuing}

\epigraph{``Note: investigation in why sharing a problem is said to halve it
remain inconclusive. Perhaps more varied trials are needed, as the tiger
always ends up killing both subjects no matter the order they're put in
the cage.''}{Extract from the journal of Dread Emperor Malignant II}



Lord Akil Tanja of the Grim Binder's Blood crouched over the thinning
snow and passed a hand through it, the twinge in his knees a reminder
that this was not his first war but it might just be his last. He was
not so old as to crumble into dust at the first touch of wind, but life
away from the comfortable confines of Malaga had taken a toll on him.
There were practices for a binder of his talent that might allow health
to seep back into his flesh but the Lord of Malaga had always disdained
their likes. He would not play chasing-games with his age by binding and
devouring creatures, not even those that would survive such a perverted
act. The rueful reflection on his age was forced to the side by the calm
voice of his sworn enemy and ally.

``And?'' Lady Aquiline asked.

``The earth beneath is still frosted,'' Akil said. ``These are
war-grounds. Let there be blood.''

``Let there be blood,'' the Lady of Tartessos agreed with a crisp nod.

Neither of them considered giving the Proceran captains marching with
their host a voice in this decision. Had Prince Alvaro of Salamans
survived the battle with the Stygian army there might have been need to
do so out of courtesy but the man had died to the Magisterium's dark
sorceries -- after taking a wound he'd melted from the inside over the
night, Akil had heard -- and the remaining commanders were neither
highborn nor powerful enough to force the issue. They would follow the
Dominion in battle, like it or not.

``They say the One-Eye will be there,'' Lady Aquiline Osena of the
Slayer's Blood said. ``That would be a worthy head to claim, do you not
agree?''

The Silent Slayer's quarrelsome brood, Akil thought, had always shown a
distasteful obsession for the killing of famed foes. The one-eyed
greenskin who had been named Marshal of Praes many years ago was perhaps
the most famous alive of his kind, but if Akil understood correctly the
orc must also be an old beast by now. Hardly a challenge for a sharp
young killer like the Lady Aquiline. That she had spoken of an aged orc
but not of the Hellhound or the Deadhand was telling, in his eyes, for
while those two's fame was fresher the ending of it would have been
worthier dead. \emph{Fairer.} The Lord of Malaga spat to the side before
rising from his crouch.

``Shake the bushes before shooting at the sparrow, Osena,'' he replied.
``Marshals do not fight from the front and they have raised a fortress
from nothing, these easterners.''

The lair of the Black Queen's armies had been an impressive thing to
behold, when Akil had first taken stock of it. Beneath a tall barrow
crowned by raised stones a maze of death had been raised from wood,
steel and earth. A deep ditch led into a palisade -- a base of beaten
earth, topped by spears -- where legionaries kept watch night and day.
Behind that first line flat grounds spread into flat killing grounds,
ending in another palisade that prevented easy access to terraces filled
with siege engines and crossbowmen. Deeper behind that walled camps
filled with tents and protected by teeth-like bastions of earth and wood
jutting outwards mad up the last line of defence that would be manned by
mortals. Lord Marave's messengers had spoken of strange lights above the
barrow, after nightfall, and so Akil did not need to be told where it
was that the Black Queen had made her den. These would be hard defences
to crack, he knew, and Lady Aquiline's loose talk of claiming heads
displeased him. Marshals of Praes were not easy meat, nor were the
villain queen's own champions.

``Now is not the time to lose your stomach, Tanja,'' the Lady of
Tartessos chided. ``You heard Careful Yannu's stratagem same as me, and
did not speak against the soundness of it.''

That it had been the scheme of Lord Yannu Marave had only made Akil
hesitate all the more. Aquiline Osena had not shared a border with the
Champion's Blood for most her life, unlike Akil himself, and so she
could not understand why the way they called the man not Reckless or
Brave but \emph{Careful} Yannu should be troubling. The Lord of Malaga
had fought two honour wars against Lord Yannu's predecessor and found
him a hard fighter but no great trouble. He'd sent a war-party into
Alavan territory under Careful Yannu only once, though, in the moon that
followed the man's ascension to lordship.

His own cousin and boyhood playmate Jaira had led it, for she was
skilled with sword and bindings both and clever in the ways of war. Yet
unlike his predecessor, Yannu had not fought the raiders as they passed
through the flatlands taking riches and honour. No, he'd waited until
they were returning north laden with loot and prisoners. Then he'd
caught them while they were fat and slow under cover of night,
butchering them wholesale. Without warning, without honour duels,
without anything other than death weighed and measured. Jaira had been
the only survivor of the night, and Lord Yannu had dragged her to the
border before opening her throat in sight of the warbands Akil had sent
to reclaim his cousin. He'd then left without even hearing out the calls
to duel by the warriors of Malaga.

The point made had been harsh, but so was the man: Careful Yannu was
willing to let his holdings bleed if it allowed him to position himself
for a killing stroke. And once crossed, he would not stay his hand in
retaliation no matter who had first given insult. The Marave were
steel-cast madmen who answered to only Gods and Pilgrim, and barely even
those. The notion of one blessed with both their line's talent for
killing and a good mind for strategy was worth respect and wariness
both. Madness and cold method were dark mothers to dark days. Lord Akil
Tanja had not fought a second honour war against Alava since that
pointed lesson and slept easier for it.

And now he was being told to place the fate of his captains, of his
soldiers, in the hands of the Lord of Alava. A man known to sacrifice
for the killing stroke, and do so without hesitation. He was tempted to
refuse, to force a conference where another plan would be laid out
before battle was given, but Lady Aquiline was watching him with those
cold eyes. Waiting, patiently, for a misstep that would allow her to
wrest command of the host from him. Razin's mistakes had been paid for,
but the taint of failure still hung over the Tanjas. If the Lady of
Tartessos went to the unsworn captains, claiming he had lost his nerve,
Akil could not be certain of the outcome.

``I have already said,'' Lord Akil replied, ``that there will be blood,
Lady Aquiline. We will follow the stratagem of Careful Yannu and make
war on the Enemy.''

And still, he could not help but glance at the pale and empty vista
behind his host. That long expanse of snowy plains, which had until
morning been broken by the eldritch sight of a passage leading into
Arcadia. It was gone, now, though the remembrance of the harrowing
journey through that storm-wracked hellscape would haunt them all for
years to come. The League of Free Cities had not followed them through
the breach, after hounding them through it, yet Akil could not help but
wonder if they had not taken another path after. If there might yet be
more to this battle that the armies of the Black Queen and those of the
Grand Alliance. Lady Aquiline had sent for the horn-bearer granted to
them by the Holy Seljun while he looked, and though she looked hungry
for the honour she did not overstep.

The young boy passed him the strange carved horn inherited from days
long before the Dominion, an old artefact said to have made from the tip
of a \emph{guisanes}` horn. The legendary gargantuan bulls whose stride
had shaken the world and flattened hills into plains were perhaps more
myth than history, but it was said a shadow of their thundering might
remained in wonders crafted from their remains. Whatever the truth of
it, when Lord Akil Tanja of the Binder's Blood sounded the horn his
magic shivered inside him as the deep call echoes across the plains. In
the distance, after a long moment, the sister-horn in the hands of the
other Dominion host offered a shuddering call in reply.

Banners rose and without further ceremony the battle began.

---

Marshal Juniper of the Red Shields watched her enemies advance in
silence. The sight of so many soldiers on the move would have been
impressive for someone who had not fought in the Arcadian Campaign or
slogged through the brutality of Second Liesse, but after these Juniper
had found it took much to awe her. Yet for all that the armies before
her lacked the ostentatious wings and sorceries of the Courts or the
relentless horror of the Diabolist's wights and devils they were no less
dangerous for it. Flesh and steel did not splash so colourful across the
pages of histories as the means of monsters and villains but they
worked. And the Grand Alliance had brought much of both to bear on this
field and this day.

``They don't seem to have organized beyond attacking together,'' Grem
One-Eye said.

The sound of Kharsum spoken crisp and clear was like a breath of fresh
air straight from the steppes. Juniper let that taste of home settled in
her bones before growling in agreement. The armies of the Grand Alliance
had not joined before moving against her fortifications, to her relative
surprise. It might have taken them a few days to restructure after
merging ranks, but they would have been stronger for it and there was
not much she could do to better her own position with the means at her
disposal. Her warlord had hinted that the League might be on its way to
join the melee as well, Juniper noted. If her foes believed that arrival
imminent, it might explain this hasty assault. This was speculation,
however, and ultimately of no import to her. It was the facts that
mattered. An army of eighty thousand was approaching from the northwest,
under the command of Lord Yannu Marave and Princess Rozala Malanza. An
army of sixty thousand was approaching from the southeast, under the
command of Lord Akil Tanja. The first two commanders were known to her,
and their armies as well. Of the latter commander, however, almost
nothing was known save for his name.

``The northern force is the weaker one,'' Juniper said. ``Much of the
foot from Vaccei is light and Malanza fields mostly levies. If a rout is
to happen at all, it will be from there.''

The orc at her side grunted his agreement. They watched the enemy form
up, and with cold eyes the Marshal of Callow sought weaknesses. The
northern army advanced cautiously, which did not surprise her -- she'd
traded blows with them before. The Vaccei skirmishers advanced in a deep
but loose screen ahead of the Proceran foot Princess Rozala had brought:
a hodgepodge mixture of levies, fantassins and principality troops.
Dartwick's spies had brought back word that as much as six tenths of the
Principate infantry should be levies, which was promising, but thoughts
of an easy rout were put to rest by the two wings of infantry flanking
the Procerans. The Lord of Alava, Yannu Marave, had brought to the
crusade some of the finest heavy infantry Juniper had ever seen. Only
four thousand in whole, at least, but it was marching ahead of lighter
armsmen from Alava and Vaccei in much greater numbers. A sharp sword to
open a breach, Juniper thought, after the skirmishers found a weakness.

``Malanza has the horse again, looks like,'' Marshal Grem said.

The banner told it true, though she found the other orc made as wary as
she felt by the way the near ten thousand horse -- mixed Proceran and
Levantine horse, though vastly more so Proceran than the other -- the
Princess of Aequitan led was peeling off from the rest of the army and
moving towards the south. The mass of cavalry was moving slowly, but in
good order.

``She didn't make the plan for this,'' Juniper said. ``She's much more
aggressive a commander than that, she'd keep the horse close on the
flanks to try a charge if opportunity arose.''

``Lord Yannu then,'' Grem said. ``Shame. He's a hard one to bait.''

``Too much to hope for he spends the Vaccei foot against the palisades,
I suppose,'' Juniper muttered.

The older man twitched in amusement. The daring raids and ambushes from
the Vaccei warriors and their vicious warleaders of the Bandit's Blood
had not endeared the Levantines to either orc. Juniper found her eyes
drifting south, to the other army, and found her back prickling. Most of
what she saw there she had expected. The enemy was moving with
skirmishers ahead, though the screen was much smaller than the northern
army's, with two massed forces of infantry behind it. One Proceran and
one Levantine. The Principate foot here should be mostly professional
soldiers, Juniper thought, which explained why unlike in the northern
army's formation they'd not been placed between steadier soldiers to
hold up their spine. The detail that had her hackles raising was the
detachment of cavalry splitting off from the army, a solid seven
thousand moving north. From a bird's eye view, the Hellhound considered,
within the hour there would be a point where her camp was as the centre
of a neat square.

``They think they have a way to breach the palisades,'' the Marshal of
Callow said. ``Interesting.''

The Marshal of Praes squinted his one eye, gazing at the moving
cavalries. He arrived, she suspected, at the same conclusion she had:
they were being positioned to hit forces defending the palisades from
sudden angles after a path suddenly being opened for them.

``The reserves are readied,'' Grem One-Eye said, baring his fangs. ``Let
them try.''

A moment later the skirmish lines of the northern army entered the first
killing yard the Marshals had prepared for them and the slaughter began.

---

Moro of the Brigand's Blood had lost thirty warriors in the time it took
to drink a skin of water. He was not stranger to death dealt and
received, but the sheer suddenness of it took him by surprise. The traps
had been cleverly hidden, he thought, covered with a thin layer of snow
and earth. And they must have been dug at night, for even with watcher
his mother's had not known of them. Not all warriors who'd fallen in the
pits had died to the sharp stake at the bottom, but all had taken wounds
-- and their screams had brought hesitation where before there had been
only courage. The warriors of his lands, Moro would admit to himself,
were not used to being on this side of the traps and were not taking it
well. The heir to Vaccei had called a halt, and sent for what he thought
might just be the solution to the troubles. It wasn't long before the
priests answered his call, for the Lanterns were never far from the
vanguard of strife. A full battle-party of thirteen had come in answer,
to his pleasure, and the eldest among them sought him out.

``Honoured Son,'' the woman greeted him. ``You seek illumination?''

``I seek to walk within the Light,'' Moro agreed. ``For me and mine to
follow its paths.''

The woman's face-paint, golden and pale, hid her expression well. He
could not tell whether she approved or disapproved of his request, which
while not presumptuous was still a request -- for some of the Lanterns
just that was enough to give offence. They were a touchy lot.
Regardless, after a heartbeat she suddenly whipped around and a lance of
Light struck out. Twenty feet forward, it broke through a thin layer of
snow and earth to reveal the trap under.

``Follow, then, Moro of the Brigand's Blood,'' the Lantern said.

Her companions spread out, and at the fore of Moro's own warriors came
men and women bearing long perches. They would reveal these traps, he
smiled, for the Enemy had been foolish enough to lay them far out of
crossbow range.

---

General Hune Egelsdottir waited until it was clear no more of the
warrior-priests would reinforce the frontlines. She glanced at her
senior mage, mildly amused by how eager he seemed to be to act.

``Fire,'' she ordered. ``On special assets only.''

Behind her, rituals bloomed as the mage cadres finally received the
authorization to act. One, two, three, four, five: she long spears of
flame formed and were sent out like massive arrows. Without scrying to
adjust the trajectory it was unpleasantly imprecise business to use
these sorts of rituals, as shown by the rituals. All were impacts -- the
ogre made a note to commend the officers leading the rituals -- but only
three of the priests were turned to cinders.

No matter, it was only the first volley.

``Again,'' the general of the Second Army ordered, the faintest trace of
a smile on her face.

---

Lord Yannu Marave sat atop his horse and thoughtfully chewed the
mouthful of bread he'd ripped from the loaf, eyeing the falling javelins
of flame.

Princess Rozala had told him the Army of Callow had used such ritual
sorceries before, though allegedly it had not since the Hierophant had
left its ranks for destination. It would have been sloppy, however, to
assume that meant without the Bestowed they could not. So he hadn't,
instead preparing the same manner of defences the Proceran armies had at
the Battle of the Camps. The priests from the House of Light, that tame
Proceran breed, were shuffled to the front and ordered to form
protective panes of Light. The Vaccei warriors were not yellow-bellied,
and so did not need much haranguing before their advance resumed.

---

Grem One-Eye leaned forward and Juniper grinned, broad and fierce. They
had, she believed, noticed the same detail. Though the ritual sorcery
had been checked by priest intervention once more, there'd been a
departure from the way that trick had been used at the Camps. Instead of
massive layered shields covering the entire frontline, this time the
Grand Alliance had resorted to a mere half dozen large panes protecting
where the rituals had been striking. Dartwick's spies, the Hellhound was
forced to admit, had actually provided useful military intelligence.

``They're spread thin on priests,'' the Marshal of Praes laughed. ``Too
many wars, Hasenbach, too many wars.''

The Marshal of Callow did not reply, for her gaze had turned south where
battle was finally being joined. General Abigail, the Hellhound had
decided, was in need of thorough tempering. Her command at the southern
front should serve, for a start.

---

The pit traps had not been part of the warnings Lord Marave had passed,
but Aquiline Osega was not moved by the loss of a few dozen skirmishers.
In the hunting of a foe strong and cunning, such deaths were inevitable.
The Lady of Tartessos had been riding behind the last of the slingers
and javelinmen, a handful of captains at her side, when she ordered the
assault to be halted. Inevitable losses or not, she would not
countenance simply throwing soldiers at the traps until a safe path
emerged. Her favoured captain, dearest Elvera -- who had such a dark
reputation, with some, but to Aquiline remained the smiling woman who'd
taught her how to reply to scraped knees with broken teeth -- quietly
reminded her that with Lord Yannu's force advancing there could be no
long halt without leaving his army exposed to the full attention of the
enemy. Feeling out the traps with perches would take too long, Lady
Aquiline had decided. No, it was time for bold steps. The rider she sent
to that hard-eyed old monster Akil Tanja returned with the answer she'd
wanted: the binders of Malaga would take the lead.

Reining in her horse, it was an effort for the Lady of Tartessos not to
show the thrum of excitement she felt at the notion of seeing the finest
sorcerers of Levant in the fullness of their war-making. When had been
the last time Creation witnesses such a thing, she wondered? Not since
the Sepulcher War, at least, and perhaps not even then. A mere hundred
men and women in thick coats of leather and iron grey cloth marched to
the front, skulls and bones and claws bound by fine brass chains. The
spread out in a line, and one of them raised a hand. There was a
grinding scream, like a hundred blades being scraped against each other,
and a translucent drop formed in the air a few feet in front of the
binder. The ground beneath it, snow and earth and snow, was sucked
upwards by some invisible force that broke it all down to grains. The
other binders followed in the first one's wake, drops forming one after
another and the scream becoming utterly deafening. And still Aquiline
did not look away for a moment, for in front of her spirits were being
given shape.

The first one shaped a wyvern, the winged creature with the long
stinger-tipped tail letting out a scream all too-real before it began to
advance and strike at the ground to reveal traps. The snow and earth it
was made from shifted like true flesh and sinew, for the spirit the
binder had called forth still remembered the body it has once worn. It
was a company of beasts that was brought forth, manticores and griffins
and \emph{culebron}. Even a few creatures she did not recognize:
\emph{her}, the Lady of Tartessos, whose true domain was the savage
Brocelian!

The beasts of snow and earth sprang forward, implacable and relentless.

---

General -- despite her best efforts -- Abigail of Summerholm idly
wondered if you got a worse penalty for deserting when you were a
general. She'd assumed it couldn't get worse than hanging, and that
could only happen the once, but considered the amount of Wastelanders
enrolled in the Army of Callow she just couldn't be sure. Well, there
was nowhere to run to anyway so it was all academic in the end.

``Burn those up, boys,'' she called out.

Krolem relayed the order more proper-like, wonderful aide that he was.
Behind the generals rituals bloomed, but Abigail just had this sinking
feeling it wasn't going to be enough.

It wasn't pessimism, she told herself, if you were part of the Army of
Callow.
