\hypertarget{interlude-so-we-shot-him}{%
\chapter*{Interlude: So We Shot Him}\label{interlude-so-we-shot-him}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{interlude-so-we-shot-him}} \chaptermark{Interlude: So We Shot Him}

\epigraph{``One hundred and twenty one: it can be wise to make a truce with
a villain to deal with greater threat. Never forget, however, that fear
does not make someone trustworthy. Merely afraid.''}{``Two Hundred Heroic Axioms'', author unknown}



Captain Elvera could not have drawn her sword even if there was a need,
for oaths still bound her and so uncertainty was staying her hand. It
had been a very fine line she'd walked these last few weeks, one finer
than she was truly comfortable with. Elvera had sworn not to make war on
the Black Queen nor her allies for the span of three months, and that
span had not yet ended, though Lady Aquiline had made use of her
regardless. The letter of the oath had been observed: the prisoners
released under oath had never left the reserve or bared blade. Elvera
herself did not formally hold command, for that might be impugning her
word, though her `advice' was obeyed so faithfully this was mere
pretence. The old woman would not pretend the spirit of the oath had not
been broken, regardless, or that service of her lady excused the act.
Even if the Black Queen had likely expected no better of them, it did
not lessen the shame of being so feckless. Yet when duty and honour
pulled different ways, which one was to be heeded? Elvera had no answer,
and her lady was understanding, so here she was straddling a charade
instead of declaring for either.

``Those are the Spears of Stygia, we have confirmed it,'' Captain Onaedo
grimaced. ``Ashen Gods, just when the night was turning around.''

Onaedo, second only to her in years of service to Tartessos, held
command of the host in the absence of Lady Aquiline -- who was, at the
moment, still having her wounds seen to. Along with Razin Tanja, who
she'd insisted would be healed at her side. That'd raised more than a
few eyebrows, and likely would again in days to come. If they survived
that long, Elvera thought. Which given the way reputable armies had
taken to appearing out of thin air at their rear was seeming less
certain by the moment.

``And they are facing the Procerans,'' Elvera slowly said.

The League of Free Cities had struck\ldots{} oddly. Perhaps in part to
obscure its numbers, which were still very much in doubt, but their
array was unusual. The Spears of Stygia, perhaps the finest infantry
that region had to offer, had appeared and formed up for advance at the
back of Lady Aquiline's command. Not facing the Alavan heavy infantry of
Lord Malave to the north, which might be understandable if a swift rout
was what was meant to achieved. Yet it was a hardened army of twenty
thousand Procerans, an army who'd already fought that same slave-phalanx
in the past, that they'd formed up in front of. There'd been much easier
meat to prey on, if the Stygians had wished: the famously
lightly-armoured warriors of Vaccei, or perhaps the hodgepodge mixture
of fantassins and levies that was the northern Proceran contingent.
Elvera had seen to it that even while moving to encircle the Black
Queen's camp her lady's army had not overextended, so theirs was not a
weak position to assault. Why, of all places, had the Spears of Stygia
been put in front of the largest knot of veteran Proceran soldiery on
the field? A rider approached, breaking up her musings, and conferred
quietly with Captain Onaedo. She glanced at him, brow raised.

``The Black Queen's surrender seems to be holding,'' he told her.

The Grand Alliance would have folded like parchment if it hadn't, Elvera
grimly admitted to herself. Even now, in the distance, she could see the
buckling lines of her lady's host when it was fighting on a single front
-- two would have ended them in an hour. The Stygian phalanx was pushing
through the Procerans inch by inch, unflinchingly, and with few losses.
On the left flank the Bellerophans were being hacked into by eager
Tartessos captains, though the enemy's formations were so dense it was
like wrestling with a boulder. Elvera would have spared a moment to be
impressed by the way conscripts with only spears and old armour were
holding up so well in front of proper warriors if the Bellerophan
stubbornness wasn't in the course of losing her this battle. Delosi
forces held the other flank, facing Malagan warbands, and though the
scribes themselves were nothing to worry of the mercenaries they'd hired
had stiffer spines and sharper blades. The Malagan captains were only
barely holding on, and if they broke it would turn into a massacre. The
Procerans at the centre would be encircled and choked by the Stygian
phalanx while Elvera's left flank remained stuck and unable to help.
Until the centre collapsed as well, anyway, and it was swept through as
well.

``We won't be winning this battle,'' Captain Elvera bluntly said. ``All
we can do is hold and hope for Lord Marave to beat back the rest of the
League.''

``What would you advise, then?'' Captain Onaeodo asked.

``I'd throw everything we have in reserve at our right flank,'' she
said. ``And pray it'll hold long enough.''

It wasn't an order, oath forbade it, but it was treated like one.

---

``I expect,'' Yannu Marave calmly said, ``that you come bearing a
threat.''

Had they been dealing with a lesser villain, Tariq thought, then the
Lord of Alava would have been correct. If there'd ever been a time for
the armies of the East to turn on the Grand Alliance, it was now.
Debacle was unfolding down south, while a mere mile outside this tent a
hard battle was being fought. Helike's army had swept out of Arcadia
like a tide, hammering at the right flank unexpectedly, and even as Lord
Yannu redeployed to meet the threat two more blows had come in quick
succession: the soldiers of Penthes smashing into the left flank while
those of Nicae poured out in the centre. The first half hour had been
one sided butchery, for the Alliance's army had been taken utterly by
surprise, but now that it'd had time to form up a brutal stalemate of
shield walls had formed. Yet all it would take was for the Army of
Callow to resume firing its siege engines at the army, and the battle
would be over. Odds were that Catherin Foundling would never again get
advantage so heavy and undeniable over the hosts of the Grand Alliance,
and if she were a fool then she would have instructed her followers to
take advantage of it. The Grey Pilgrim saw no such thing within Vivienne
Dartwick, and that brought forth just as much fear as it did relief.

``Queen Catherine offered the surrender in good faith,'' the young woman
replied just as calmly. ``It stands, regardless of circumstance. I have
come to discuss terms of ransoming.''

Tariq almost laughed at the audacity of that. Lady Dartwick had ridden
into her enemy's camp with nothing but a cursory escort, unarmed, and
sat herself at the table across one of the most powerful men in the west
without batting an eye. Like she did not doubt for a moment that she
belonged there, though the Pilgrim's eye told him she was not without
doubts. They were not, however, woven into every part of her as they had
been the previous year. Instead now there was a pulsing sentiment that
split the difference of ambition and yearning, and it had nestled deep
at the heart Vivienne Dartwick. The dark-haired woman, Tariq thought,
had quite clearly lost her Bestowal. She was the Thief no longer, both
his eyes and the whispers of the Ophanim had so ascertained. And yet, in
the bargain of that loss, she had gained something altogether more
dangerous: belief.

\emph{Am I}, the Pilgrim thought\emph{, looking at your successor,
Catherine Foundling?}

``Ransoming,'' Lord Marave said, tone flat. ``You wish to have some of
your forces released?''

``I have come to bargain,'' Lady Vivienne pleasantly smiled, ``for the
ransoming of every force that surrendered to the Peregrine.''

Whispers, sharp and urgent. Not because of the woman's words, for those
were no surprise, but for something unfolding. There was, the Ophanim
conveyed, to be another great breach between Creation and Arcadia. Soon,
and it would be calamitous in some way. The Peregrine closed his eyes,
feeling out the miracle he had woven over the sky. It was on the edge of
passing, though it would be a natural death: Creation's true dawn was
about to begin, and it would chase away his own conceited mimicry.

``That is not an offer mine to accept,'' Yannu Marave said. ``But the
terms must be interesting, for what you offer to be worth so many
soldiers.''

``The aid of said soldiers,'' Vivienne Dartwick replied. ``Against the
League of Free Cities.''

Left to it, Tariq thought, they would keep fencing for some time.
Careful and wary both, even as death bloomed out on the fields. Not
without reason, but the situation was on the edge of taking a grim turn.
The Tyrant of Helike might have been called here by the Black Queen's
ploy, but he suspected even she did not truly understand what she'd
unleashed. She'd let the fox into the henhouse, as reckless as ever.

``Lord Yannu,'' the Pilgrim quietly asked. ``Can this battle be won
without their assistance?''

The other man's lips thinned.

``If our last hand is played,'' he said.

``It is, I think, about to be snapped over the Tyrant's knee,'' Tariq
said.

``Then it is not impossible, yet the path is narrow,'' the Lord of Alava
said.

``Then we have an accord, Vivienne Dartwick,'' the Pilgrim said.

There was a flicker of surprise on her face, though she mastered it
swiftly.

``There is a mage among my escort,'' she said. ``If I might be allowed
to send a signal?''

``Do so,'' Tariq said. ``And hurry, for-''

Creation shivered, to a sound like glass breaking had the glass been
screamed by a hundred thousand voices. The Grey Pilgrim was on his feet
in a heartbeat, leaving his words unfinished even as he raced out of the
tent. The Ophanim's voices rose in a chorus of anger at the
thoughtlessness of what had been done, and he could only agree. A breach
fractured the plain between the armies fighting, shaped like a thick
pane of glass shattered by blow -- spinning out in cracks. Through it
fell thousands and thousands of horsemen, the very same he had sent into
Arcadia. Lady Dartwick came to stand at his side, face gone pale.

``Send your signal,'' the Grey Pilgrim said. ``Before it is too late.''

Cursing his weary bones, the Peregrine straightened his back. First he
would need to enlist Laurence, but after that? There was a villain among
the rain of soldiers that was being carried down by a swarm of
gargoyles. The Rogue Sorcerer should be able to hold him until the two
old hands arrived.

Kairos Theodosian had been allowed to run rampant for too long, and an
end brought to his scheming was long overdue.

---

It wasn't even much of a drop, Hakram thought, but then it hadn't needed
to be.

Ten, twelve feet the orc estimated. He'd seen horses jump half that
without hurting themselves, though admittedly not horses in armour and
bearing armoured riders. Still, he suspected it'd been the angle of it
more than anything else: like the floor dropping off under and entire
army. Their return to Creation had been accompanied by a horrifying
song. Horses by the thousands screaming for their broken limbs, falling
to the side and rolling over soldiers crushed by their weight. Horns and
trumpets as the Procerans and Levantines who'd remained unharmed tried
and failed to assert order, and all the while Kairos Theodosian laughed
convulsively. \textbf{Rend}, the red-eyed boy had ordered Arcadia, and
beneath the hooves of the west's cavalry the earth had been rent
asunder. At least the Tyrant seemed half-dead for it, Adjutant thought.
The orc had seen higher sorceries of this calibre before, but only once
before an aspect destructive on such a scale: the Carrion Lord's own,
when he had wrecked the doomsday fortress made from Liesse. Lord Black
had been near killed by the overreach, however, where Kairos Theodosian
remained conscious. Feverish, yes, exhausted and drenched in sweat. Yet
still very much awake.

``It appears,'' Adjutant said, ``that you've repelled the enemy.''

The Tyrant did not reply, slumped and breathing laboriously. The villain
was seated on his throne still, a gaudy thing bejewelled and set on a
platform almost as luxurious. The platform itself had been carried down
by a swarm of gargoyles, along with the wooden frame holding up Hakram
himself. And more, too: Lord Kairos' personal guard had been held up by
pairs of the constructs, slowing their fall by enough the descent did
not wound them. It'd allowed Adjutant a read on the amount of gargoyles
that existed in whole, which to his eyes was somewhere between three and
five thousand -- mostly likely on the lower end of that span. It was
still a colossal investment of resources to have made so many of the
creatures, especially for a city-state, and should they ever be broken
Hakram suspected it would be a crippling blow for the villain. Something
to pass along, when he returned to Catherine. Lord Kairos did not reply
to his comment, instead sending out further swarms of gargoyles with an
anemic twitch of the arm. Adjutant's eyes narrowed. The thousand-strong
retinue of Helikean soldiers was making a slaughter of the horsemen in
disarray, methodically scything through the wounded and the frightened,
but it was not them the constructs had gone after.

``Better than repelled,'' Kairos Theodosian rasped out.
``\emph{Captured}.''

Fascinated, Hakram peered at the swarms that were causing such a racket
further down the shattered enemy column. There were seven of them,
spiriting away seven prisoners. Seven crowned princes and princesses of
Procer, he thought, snatched by the gargoyles in the midst of the
howling chaos that'd been crashing down onto Creation.

``And now-'' Lord Kairos began, but a wet cough tore out of his throat.

The boy's lips, Hakram saw, were flecked with blood.

``And now,'' the Tyrant croaked, ``dawn.''

The orc looked up, in time to see the shining star that held back the
night wane, and the truth of Creation replace it. The drow were struck
down anew, before they could even properly stir.

---

Akua Sahelian watched dawn rise, a crow on one side and a well on the
other.

They had watched it all unfold from the highest point in the camp of the
Army of Callow, the graceful dance that'd spanned a night and brought
them to this very moment. The shade who'd once been the heiress to Wolof
had been taught the arts of treachery since the cradle, and taken to
them like few others, so perhaps she was the only person in all of
Iserre who could suitably appreciate what Catherine had done. The
seamless sequence, born of an understanding of her foes that had been
like an astronomer's prediction of spheres in their orbit. Akua had
glimpsed but a fraction of the preparations that arranging the stretch
of a single night -- no, not even that, barely even a bell in duration
-- had taken and so what she saw was not the luck of meddler but instead
a net whose weaving had begun weeks ago, if not months.

``O Goddess of Night,'' the shade said. ``You walk along her thoughts,
do you not? How much of it did she truly anticipate?''

``Enough,'' the Eldest Night said.

Though the urge to press the matter burned on her tongue, she did not
purse. Akua was not Catherine, to chastise and wheedle entities far
beyond her ken with that fearlessness that was sister to folly. Even
without moving a finger the shade could feel the towering weight of the
goddess who had been born to the name of Andronike, the millennia of
blood and screams she had woven into apotheosis. It felt like even just
an irritated glance from the half of Sve Noc would be enough to make
dust in the wind of Akua, for one's presence was mountain and the other
feathers.

``And now I am called on to do my part, leal servant that I am,'' the
shade murmured.

In the sky a streak of coloured light stretched, the signal from Lady
Dartwick that surrender had been turned into effective -- if still
temporary -- alliance.

``No servant of mine,'' the goddess said. ``You wield, but do not make
covenant.''

``Alas, O Goddess, my heart has already been taken,'' Akua smiled.

``This is humorous, for you imply romantic feeling when in truth
referencing grievous bodily harm,'' Andronike said, tone smug. ``I have
mastered your ways, shade.''

``I am helpless before your guile, Sve Noc,'' she replied, tone the
slightest hint of dry.

The crow cawed in high-handed agreement.

``There will be need of a word, to bring it forth,'' the goddess said.
``Have you chosen?''

``I have,'' Akua said, lips quirking. ``I believe she would approve.''

``Then we begin,'' Andronike said.

Her work was not as crude and unpolished as to require physical contact
to be wielded: proximity and binding were sufficient. She who had once
been the Diabolist allowed herself to sink into the sea of Night, the
receptacle she had filled with the might of the Mighty night after
night. Akua had known men and women, in Praes, who would have sold half
the world to have such power at their fingertips. And it'd been
entrusted to her almost as an \emph{afterthought}, like it was a chore
instead of the kind of privilege children would murder their progenitors
for without hesitation. No oath stayed her hand, now, and no chain held
her so closely that with this in her grasp she could not sever it. She
could turn on the woman who'd slain and bound her. She could even bring
this entire beautiful house of cards tumbling down on her head simply by
doing nothing. Instead, Akua Sahelian opened black-rimmed eyes and bared
a smile like a blade of ivory.

``Fall,'' she said.

A torrent of darkness shot up in the sky, and from dawn wove an eclipse.

---

Princess Rozala Malanza woke disoriented, her leg throbbing with pain.
She groaned and almost panicked when she realized she could not move her
arms or legs -- she was bound by rope -- but mastered herself before she
could scream. She would not give the Enemy the pleasure of her fear
before it took her life and sent her back to\ldots{} No, this was not
Cleves. It was Iserre, it was dark, and for reasons unknown she was
hanging upside down from a rope.

``Ah,'' a familiar voice gravelled. ``I thought the prince from Cantal
would be first to wake, on account of the thicker skull.''

``Deadhand?'' Rozala croaked, her mouth cottony and vision swimming.
``You've captured me?''

She forced herself to concentrate, and after squinting for a moment saw
through the gloom.

``Not exactly,'' the Adjutant ruefully replied, just as she realized the
orc was hanging upside down a mere foot to the left.

Gods, her throat was parched. Wiggling in her bindings, Rozala saw she
was in hallowed company indeed: to her right was Prince Arnaud, and from
there a procession of royalty continued. Every prince and princess of
Procer in her host was strung up there in a neat row from a raised beam,
like venison left to dry.

``Who-'' she began, turning to the orc, but then she remembered.
``Merciful Gods, the Tyrant. We were thousands and\ldots{}''

``Shhhh,'' a young man called out. ``The gallery doesn't get to talk,
Rosalie.''

``Rozala,'' the Adjutant said.

``Oh, who cares,'' the Tyrant of Helike dismissed. ``Proceran royals,
eh? There's so many of them, why even bother? She can complain to
Cordovan Hallenban if she feels insulted.''

The Damned, she saw, hadn't even bothered to turn to address them. He
was sprawled on a lumpy throne set atop a platform. Likely for some
eldritch reason a goat was standing at his side, allowing herself to be
petted while he fed her grass from his palm.

``Cordelia Hasenbach,'' Princess Rozala coolly corrected. ``First Prince
of Procer and Warden of the West.''

Hasenbach was not and never would be bosom friend of hers, but she would
not let the elected ruler of the Principate be mocked by a twisted
little shit like Tyrant of Helike.

``If Rosalie talks again, my lovelies, eat one of her eyes,'' Kairos
Theodosian absent-mindedly ordered. ``You can choose which.''

Rozala's blood ran cold when she saw a gargoyle's animalistic visage
peer out over the edge of the beam from which she hand, chittering
eagerly. There was a bleat from the goat and the Tyrant snorted.

``No, not \emph{you},'' the boy said. ``You're a terrible horse.''

Rozala eyed the Adjutant, wondering whether a whispered question was
worth the risk of losing an eye, but the orc suddenly stiffened. A
heartbeat later, there was a burst of light as a cut was made through
thin air and in a gust of stormy wind three silhouettes emerged in front
of the Tyrant's throne. Rozala knew them well, had fought at the side of
most.

``Tyrant,'' the Grey Pilgrim greeted the villain. ``This has gone on for
long enough.''

The Damned idly flipped the jeweled scepter in his hand, catching it by
the handle.

``Give me a moment,'' the Tyrant of Helike said, cocking his head to the
side. ``I'm trying to think of an answer that involves a goat pun. Just
kidding? No, that's sloppy. I hold myself to higher standards than
that.''

``It will be a mercy to put an end to you, lunatic,'' the Saint of
Swords said.

``I bet you didn't even make that one on purpose,'' the Damned laughed.

``There's sorcery being used,'' the Rogue Sorcerer told the other two.
``Still distant, but\ldots{}''

``Cutting the head of the snake will serve, for a start,'' the Peregrine
said.

The old man raised his staff, and as the air thickened with the weight
of Chosen preparing to battle a small sound ripped through the tension.
It was, Rozala realized, a match being struck. Off the ornate helmet
Prince Arnaud still wore even unconscious. Nonchalantly lighting her
pipe, the Black Queen flicked the spent match down and offered up a
sharp-toothed smile.

``So,'' Catherine Foundling said, ``we've got about an hour before
everybody here ends up enlisting in the Dead King's army the hard way.''

She shrugged, and leaned against the Adjutant's tied form.

``But hey, by all means don't let me interrupt.''
