\hypertarget{interlude-congregation-iii}{%
\section{Interlude: Congregation III}\label{interlude-congregation-iii}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``We sowers of ruin, straight-backed and proud,}

\emph{Told them arrant, and arrantly kept our vow:}

\emph{`No bargain is there, between hunter and flock;}

\emph{No peace between the rabbit and the hawk.'}

\emph{We sowers of ruin, reaped all that was sown,}

\emph{For as Mieza's sons toppled our waning thrones,}

\emph{They arrant said: `no bargain now, o lords of war,}

\emph{For no peace can be, between spear and boar.'}

\emph{We sowers of ruin, the reapers that were reapt,}

\emph{Sing the elder song still, for we must not forget:}

\emph{No bargain is there, between hunter and flock,}

\emph{No peace can there be, between lash and orc.''}

-- ``Ruin, Sown'', a spoken verse in Kharsum attributed to Yngvild
Bittertongue, chieftess of the Red Shields
\end{quote}

Lord Yannu Marave of the Champion's Blood felt his scalp prickle. The
last time the Lord of Alava's instincts had been screaming this loudly,
he'd come within a breath of having his crush skulled by a
\emph{culebron} whose scales he'd failed to notice among the leaves of
the Brocelian. Yannu had been a young fool, back then, but raised his
shield on impulse and so avoided dying to a whip of the tail so strong
it put hammer blows to shame. He could not help but wonder if there was
not kinship between the dangers of then and now. A fool was once more
about to step on the tail a hidden serpent and die for that mistake.
That he now stood at the heart of a great army instead of journeying
alone into the deeper barrow-woods to bring honourable deeds to his
Blood made little difference. As Yannu's station had risen, so had the
dangers accompanying it.

``They're camped here,'' Moro of the Brigand's Blood said, tapping his
finger. ``On the other shore of the river.''

The heir to Vaccei had gained a few fresh scars, fighting at his
mother's side against the Marshals. What had already been a hard face on
a hard man was now frightful to behold, the red marks left by goblin
steel running jagged through the umber-brown and basil-green face paint
of his line. The effect was strikingly attractive, though Yannu was
careful not to let his gaze linger. He was over a decade older than the
other man, after all.

``The river's called the Odelle,'' Princess Rozala Malanza noted,
frowning as she bent over the table to have a closer look. ``As I
recall, the source is further east and the depth shallow. It'll be
frozen over.''

The Princess of Aequitan had been a pleasant surprise, the Lord of Alava
thought. No Alamans intriguer, that one, but a hardened Arlesite
commander who had already fought the greater of their foes on the field
not so long ago. Wild rumours still spread about what had taken place as
the Battle of the Camps, but not so wild that the Peregrine had not
confirmed some of the lot. The Black Queen, if she had truly returned,
would be a fearsome enemy. The part of Yannu that belonged to the
Champion's Blood was eager at the thought of measuring his prowess
against hers. The part that was the Lord of Alava was wary instead, for
it had fought against the Marshals for months and learned they had sharp
talons indeed.

``If they have ended their march, then they must believe their eastern
columns are close to joining them,'' Yannu said. ``We may be facing as
many as sixty thousand eastern legionaries, along with however many
there are of these grey ghosts.''

``Between our hosts, we have eighty thousand,'' Princess Rozala said.
``And if Lord Tanja makes his way as swiftly as promised with Her
Highness' southern army, that's another sixty thousand hitting them from
the other side of the river.''

``Likely double the enemy's numbers, unless the Black Queen is somehow
fielding an army that leaves no tracks in the snow,'' Moro of the
Brigand's Blood said.

Word from Sarcella and Akil Tanja put these grey devil-ghosts at less
than twenty thousand strong, though it was said some could wield strange
sorceries. Yet they were also said to be no stronger than men, blade in
hand, and just as mortal. Poorly armed as well, more tribes than
companies.

``We should strike at the Hellhound's camp before the rest of her
divisions arrive,'' Princess Malanza said. ``Best for all of us we face
that army \emph{without} Catherine Foundling in it.''

``There would be great honour in taking the Black Queen's life,'' Moro
told her bluntly.

The look in the younger man's eyes spoke of esteem lowered for shying
away from a worthy struggle. Yannu would withhold judgement instead. The
Peregrine and the Regicide had promised they would take the field
against the Arch-heretic of the East should she bare her blade, but the
Lord of Alava still remembered the stories from the rise of the Barrow
Lord. The warring of Bestowed was never kind to their lesser, and the
Black Queen was said to be one of the greatest living villains. Even in
death she might wreak great slaughter.

``The lucky ones died when the lake fell on their heads, at the Camps,''
Princess Rozala said, tone calm yet not less sharp for it. ``Those that
drowned, though? It wasn't as quick. They had long enough to realize
there would be nothing to save them.''

The dark-haired princess smiled pleasantly.

``Which would you prefer to happen when you turn comes, Levantine?'' she
asked.

The heir to Vaccei twitched, no doubt reaching for one of the many
poisoned blades on his person, but the Arlesite's hand was already on
the pommel of her sword. It was never very far from it, Yannu had
noticed, and she seemed uncomfortable when it was.

``Enough,'' he said. ``Moro, you would bare a blade on an ally when the
\emph{Peregrine} is among us?''

The man's lips pressed together in disquiet, as well they should. The
Pilgrim might not be at this council, but the incarnate soul of Levant
had made it clear as rain to all of them that his blessing had been
given to the Grand Alliance. To dishonour the living inheritor in Blood
and Bestowal of the Dominion's father would be\ldots{} Even should the
Peregrine not take Moro's life, the sheer weight of the shame might see
the man slice open his own throat.

``There is nothing to be gained from threats, Princess Rozala,'' Yannu
said, eyes then moving to the Proceran. ``We are to fight side by side
on this field and more to come.''

``Apologies, Moro,'' the dark-haired woman curtly said, dipping her
head.

The heir to Vaccei returned the courtesy, just as curtly. It was for the
best that Lady Itima had not been the one given slight to, for the Lady
of Vaccei would not have left it at that.

``I stand by my words nonetheless,'' the Princess of Aequitan said. ``We
must strike now, before they gather.''

``I am reluctant to engage without our full might,'' Yannu admitted.
``The armies of the League are marching towards us, Princess. If they
are to try our flank while we face the Marshals then I would have all
our soldiery arrayed against the enemy.''

Rozala had, amusingly enough, inquired if the Tyrant of Helike had sent
envoys to make a bargain with Yannu's host not long after she joined her
army with the Lord of Alava's. He'd replied that was indeed the case,
and that those envoys could easily be found: the corpses, after all,
were still hanging from the personal banner of the Lady of Vaccei. Lady
Itima's line had faithfully kept to the hatred the Vengeful Brigand had
held against foreigners, and not hesitated to slaughter any sworn to the
likes of Kairos Theodosian.

``If we get them to retreat from their camp, we can seize it and close
ranks with Lord Tanja's force there before the League arrives,''
Princess Rozala suggested.

``Or their returning columns could find us engaged assaulting a
fortified camp and spring an ambush before Tanja is close enough to
reinforce,'' Yannu pointed out with a frown.

Her insistence puzzled him, for she should well know that the Marshals
were capable of plying nasty tricks against opponents made sloppy by
haste. Had she not fought the Hellhound herself and come out the lesser
captain? The Lord of Alava had lost hundreds to a vicious charge of
Callowan knights before learning to keep his own horse close to his
skirmishers, and would not go after his foe so brashly again.

``If we lose the initiative we risk this entire campaign stretching out
for months,'' the dark-haired princess reminded him, sounding
frustrated.

\emph{There it is}, the Lord of Alava thought. It had been a rare
occasion for all the great captains of the allied armies to hold common
council, for both Malanza and he were aware that old enmities would see
blades bared should close company be kept. Yet on the two occasions it
had, Yannu had studied the princes and princess of Procer. Seen the
difference, the subtle currents that ran among them. That Princess
Rozala was first among equals was clear, beyond even her right of
command, and that the Princess of Lyonis was her appointed warden was
just as clear. What had been more interesting, to Yannu of the
Champion's Blood, was that even within the Princess of Aequitan's
faithful there was more subtle division. The princes of Creusens and
Cantal were closer in her trust than any other, and both of those men
had\ldots{} telltale marks. Louis of Creusens had pulled a knife without
hesitating on a servant when she'd approached him from behind, halfway
to her neck before he stopped himself. Arnaud of Cantal spoke loudly and
often, but sometimes also fell into long silences where he moved not a
finger. As for Rozala Malanza herself, Yannu had noticed when seated she
never crossed her legs. She wore leather boots, and always kept their
thin soles squarely against the ground. Like she was feeling for
tremors.

All three of these, the Lord of Alava had been told, had gone north to
the Principality of Cleves to fight against the armies of the Dead King.

``I was told that the lines in Cleves held,'' Yannu said, watching the
Proceran closely.

Princess Rozala's jaw clenched.

``When the sea pulls back before the coming wave crashes, the shore has
not \emph{held},'' she replied. ``We bought a month, Lord Marave, maybe
two. Our defences will break sure as summer's turn if we wait longer
than that. You have not\ldots{}''

Yannu saw her lips moved in a whisper, counting out in Tolesian. Only
after reaching twelve did she resume speaking.

``In Callow I fought fae and dead and villain's wroth,'' the Princess of
Aequitan finally said, voice tight. ``Believe me when I say that was a
\emph{child at play}. The Dead King comes for us all, Yannu of the
Champion's Blood. And every day we waste warring against mortals the
Enemy gains a deeper foothold.''

Eyes hard, the dark-haired princess matched him gaze for gaze.

``I've had to claw back that shore from the Hidden Horror's clutches
once before,'' she said. ``Gods have mercy, but I do not know if there
are enough soldiers left in Procer to do so a second time.''

It wasn't the determination he saw in those dark eyes that moved the
Lord of Alava. He has seen will in others, and smashed it to bloody
pieces when it stood in his way. Mortals failed, mortals broke: a moment
of resolution was just that, a moment. It always passed, and more often
than not pain and steel hurried that passing. Neither was it the fear,
for fear was an old friend to him. Yannu's Blood was meant to strive for
fearlessness, for the same reckless courage that was the Valiant
Champion's mark, but he had never forgot that day in the Brocelian where
a splintered shield might have been a splintered skull. Audacity without
patience, without watchfulness, was just another way of being frivolous
with lives. Fear was the voice that kept your eyes open when bravery
became arrogance, and he would not part from his even for a chance at
Bestowal. No, it was the heartfelt belief Rozala Malanza had for her own
words. She genuinely believed that the bell might toll for the
Principate if they lingered here too long in Iserre.

``Then we march to battle,'' Lord Yannu of the Champion's Blood
conceded.

``It'll be ten days to reach the camp,'' Moro said, stirring from his
silence with hooded eyes. ``If we hurry.''

``Then we hurry,'' Princess Rozala grimly replied.

---

They had been, Hakram had to admit, shrewdly outmanoeuvered.

Juniper's dispersion scheme had been solid, and it had certainly worked
for the initial stretch of the march. The Third Army had baited the Lord
Tanja's host towards the east while the Fourth followed along parallel
lines further north in Iserre, both keeping lines of communication open
and keeping watch for a sudden march south by Lord Marave's army. What
messengers the Fourth Army had been able to receive from the Hellhound's
own two columns headed westwards had told them that the Levantine army
under Lord Marave was pursuing them while leaving Marsha Grem and his
legions to gather themselves. Until then, all had proceeded according to
Juniper's predictions: all she had to do was join with the Legions of
Terror and force the Levantines back with a minor battle, to create a
gap. Then the Third and Fourth Army were to shake off their own pursuit
by Lord Tanja and hurry through that gap, assembling the entire allied
force together. From there they could begin a fighting retreat to the
northern passage, where the garrison under Duchess Kegan of Daoine would
be awaiting them.

The opinion of the general staff had been that, considering the League
of Free cities was invading from the south and the Dead King hitting
northern Procer in force, the Legions and the Army of Callow would not
even be hounded all the way through the retreat north. After the Grand
Alliance saved face by `driving out the eastern invaders', they'd been
predicted to focus their efforts on containing the League of Free Cities
while sending everything they could spare north. It would have been a
campaign cleverly salvaged from the unexpected blow of losing the fairy
gates when already committed deep in Procer, one fought with minimal
losses while cleanly getting out the majority of the Legions of Terror
under Marsha Grem.

Instead, the Fourth Army suddenly found its ability to send messengers
north to coordinate with the Hellhound cut when a detachment of Helike
\emph{kataphractoi} began roving north of it. The messengers south sent
to warn Nauk and the Third Army about League interference never made it,
and were found with arrows in their corpses by General Bagram's scouts.
Adjutant had pushed for the Fourth Army to immediately move south and
join with Nauk before marching north together, and the Fourth's general
agreed. One day into the march, however, a messenger form Juniper
stumbled bloody into the camp with cataphracts in close pursuit. The
First and Second Armies, the man said, had been taken by surprise and
scattered when the Grey Pilgrim joined with Lord Marave and struck with
miracles. The messenger had been an old subordinate's of General
Bagram's, and the seals were in order. Gritting his teeth, Hakram had
backed the decision to hurry and relieve Juniper -- without a cohesive
army to gather around, the legionaries of the First and Second would be
hunted down like animals by the Levantine cavalry, scattered across the
plains and vulnerable.

Seven days in, the messenger began bleeding out of the eyes and choked
on his own tongue. The priests from the House Insurgent saw nothing
wrong with him besides the obvious, but the ranking Senior Mage did when
the corpse was dissected. A small stone inscribed with runes was
dislodged from where it'd been ebbed at the bottom of the man's spine,
and examination under ritual confirmed the magic involved was illusory
in nature. One of the few Soninke among the mage cadres eventually noted
the runes had patterns in common with Stygian sorcery, and then it all
fell together. They'd been had, the messenger was some poor bastard the
Tyrant of Helike's men had captured and tinkered with the memories of
discretely enough neither priests nor mages had caught it until too
late. A few years back, Adjutant thought to himself, the trick wouldn't
have worked. But the Army of Callow had expanded wildly beyond its
capacity to field experienced mages, and the native Callowan
practitioners that'd been brought in to try to remedy that were amateurs
compared to Praesi warlocks. And Stygia's Magisterium, as the success of
the deception made clear.

Debate raged among the general staff of the Fourth Army, after that, for
most of an evening. Some argued that if the purpose of the ruse had been
to isolate the Third Army, it likely had been already destroyed by now.
A strike by the cataphracts would likely slow down Nauk's ten thousand
enough that the Levantines would surround and destroy them utterly.
Those same officers argued that marching south now would essentially
mean throwing away another quarter of the Army of Callow for Levant and
Helike to defeat in detail. Others suggested that it was the Fourth Army
itself that was the target, and the ploy's true nature was that the
northern Levantines had let the Hellhound go and were instead marching
south to pincer the Third and Fourth while Helike kept them all blind.
Some even theorized that First and Second Armies truly had been broken,
and this was all the Tyrant's trick to lead them to dismiss the notion
and hurry south while the rest of the Army of Callow was annihilated. It
was bloody chaos, and not for the first time Hakram wondered at how
young their highest rung of officers was.

The veterans brought in from the Legions that'd joined after Second
Liesse were keeping it all functional, but there were too many officers
who'd gone only through rough training camps before taking up their
commission. But General Bagram was no greenhorn, and neither was Hakram
himself. The debate ended with the decision to link up with the Third
before the situation was further assessed, though careful scouting would
be necessary in case the Third Army truly was destroyed and it was a
Levantine force south of them. The Fourth Army moved out in good order,
and a mere three days in ran into a Helike ambush. Somehow they'd
avoided three lines of scouts, and that smacked to Adjutant of either
sorcery or Named interference, but the result was brutal no matter the
means employed. Three hundred dead, twice that many wounded, and the
\emph{kataphractoi} retreated with less than a score casualties on their
side. The entire Fourth Army was boiling with fury at the humiliation,
but it was only the first of many assaults to come. On its entire march
back the way it'd been tricked marching, the army was relentlessly
harassed by Helike. Night and day assaults, at irregular intervals, and
in the end General Bagram had to order a fortified camp raised every
evening or risk losing entire companies.

It was slowing them down even further, forcing them to end the march
earlier in the day and exhausting the legionaries for the effort. Hakram
suspected that might very well be the point, and by now was halfway
convinced Nauk would be either up to his elbow in Levantines or days
dead by the time they arrived to reinforce the Third. If any of it was
even left. The anger of that stayed with him, and chased away the need
for even what little sleep his body still required. His hours he spent
either in talks with the general staff or out on watch with the
legionaries. It was maybe halfway to Midnight Bell that he saw the glint
of armoured riders in the distance, before even goblins caught it, and
he immediately sounded the alarm.

``Shit,'' Captain Mower cursed, peeking over the edge of the palisade,
then added a very absent-minded `sir'.

The old goblin saw the same thing, and did not gainsay Adjutant when he
ordered for crossbow companies to be brought to the fore. And
half-companies of regulars too. The cataphracts had yet to try a charge,
but that did not meant they would refrain if they saw an opportunity.

``So, what's it going to be tonight,'' Hakram said, teeth clinking
softly. ``Fire or exhaustion?''

``Bet you it's fire, sir,'' Captain Mower said. ``Been too long since
they tried those pitch arrows.''

The goblin spoke the word `pitch' with the kind of utter disdain that
would make a High Lord proud. He was a scout officer, not a sapper, but
in Hakramès experience that'd never stopped Eyrie get from looking down
at the unprofessional savagery of people not using proper goblin
munitions for this kind of work.

``They gain more to less risk by forcing us to wake in the middle of the
night then hitting us during the day at peak exhaustion,'' Adjutant
said. ``The surprise with the scorpions killed a few dozen last time
they got close to the palisade.''

``They won't fall for that twice,'' Captain Mower sighed. ``Almost makes
me miss Akua's Folly, at least the wights weren't mounted.''

``I'd even settle for Dormer,'' Hakram gravelled. ``And the bloody fae
could fly.''

``That's the Black Queen's service for you,'' the goblin grinned. ``It
ain't the Army of Callow if we're not fucked a different way every
time.''

There was a ring of inexplicable cheers from the rest of the line at
that, as the captain had raised his voice to carry. Catherine's
popularity with goblinkind never ceased to unnerve him. Robber had once
told him it was because she was `the closest thing a human can get to a
Matron, but you know the \emph{fun} kind of Matron not the other kind,
and it sort of helps she'd probably murder the other Matrons given a
chance, although let's be honest so would the other Matrons'. It'd been
surprisingly coherent, given how much drink his friend had in him by
that point. Not that Robber ever answered these kinds of questions by
anything other than blatant lies unless he'd been plied with liquor and
petty crime first. Pickler wasn't any more of a help, as he'd been the
one to inform her of the phenomenon in the first place. She'd never
noticed.

``Well now, \emph{that's} new,'' Captain Mower suddenly said.

Hakram's attention snapped back to the present. Behind him the thin
stripe of regulars was already standing at attention while the crossbow
companies formed up behind them and checked their gear. That much was to
be expected: they'd had a harder teacher than mere drills to get them to
do it all quick and clean. What wasn't expected was the way the Helike
cataphracts had stopped about a hundred yards away from the palisade.
They were -- wait, that wasn't a Helikean. There was a rider between the
enemy and the camp, alone. Adjutant's heart stirred, but what brought it
home was the sudden shouts of surprise coming from deeper into the camp.
A wooden post was snapped out of the frozen ground and alarm sounded
again as long wings began beating. A frankly chilling whinny sounded
into the night and Zombie the Third took flight, the wooden post she'd
been tied to swinging under her hanging by the bridle.

``Not new at all, Captain,'' Hakram Deadhand grinned, all teeth and
malice. ``\emph{She's back}.''
