\hypertarget{interlude-song}{%
\section{Interlude: Song}\label{interlude-song}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``I wrote this work because it is our habit as a people to ignore
the worst of our history and gild its mediocrities, and to speak against
this practice will see you castigated as unpatriotic. This is more than
wrong, it is dangerous. We must not snuff out the lights of our common
soul by placating the darkness, else what manner of a world are we
laying the foundation for?''}

-- Extract from the conclusion of `The Labyrinth Empire, or, A Short
History of Procer', by Princess Eliza of Salamans
\end{quote}

Her lips had gone dry, so Beatrice Volignac made herself drink from her
cup so it would not show. The wine was watered, she was not foolish
enough to partake while a battle was being waged, but the taste of the
stout Cantal red was bracing anyway. The Princess of Hainaut, or more
truthfully the capital and a thin stretch of the old southern
borderlands, set down her golden cup after having wet her lips and
leaned down to look over the maps she'd had her footpads being to the
war room years ago. This was not a war council, for there was precious
little planning left to be made, but given the prominence of the people
seated in the salon where Beatrice's ancestors had once received
visiting royalty any decision made here had the potential to make or
break the defence of the city.

Everyone had a man or a woman at the table, so to speak. The Army of
Callow in the city was led by the seniormost of their generals, an aging
orc who went by the name of Bagram, but while the general was here his
authority was mitigated by another's presence: Lady Vivienne Dartwick,
heiress-designate to the throne of Callow. That the former heroine only
rarely used her authority in military matters only reinforced its weight
when she \emph{did} use it, an elegant sort of artifice worthy of a
woman with Lady Dartwick's excellent reputation with the Highest
Assembly. There was some rejoicing among Beatrice's fellow royals at the
notion that Lady Dartwick might be sitting the throne in a few years,
though no doubt the prospect of no longer having to deal with someone
who could drown an army when cross had played a role as well as
Dartwick's personal qualities.

For the Dominion it was Captain Nabila, the stout commander of the
Alavan forces within the alliance, who was well-understood to be the
least of the three great Levantine commanders. Both Aquiline Osena and
Razin Tanja were Blood, it lent a lustre to their authority that the
other woman could not hope to match. The Iron Prince himself was here
too, having left the command at the southern wall to Princess Mathilda
of Neustria, with his empty sleeve folded over the arm he'd lost
defending this very city three years back. The sole representative for
the Firstborn was a certain Mighty Sagasbord, dark-skinned and quiet
with a bent for the sardonic when it did break its silence. Prince
Arsene despised it, Beatrice had learned, not that the dark elf
particularly seemed to care. Theirs was not a culture that quailed at
the thought of making powerful enemies.

It gave her the creeps.

``- eastern wall drove back an assault by Revenants and beorns,''
Captain Nadila shared. ``Lord Razin led the defence, with assistance
from a band of five Bestowed under the Vagrant Spear.''

Beatrice's eyes sharpened. From what she recalled, that was the band
with the Barrow Sword. The same man the Black Queen plainly meant to
make her lieutenant. Somehow the princess doubted he'd been put under
the command of another. That had the smell of Dominion politics,
something she figured she ought to have as little to do with as
possible.

``Only assaults on the walls,'' General Bagram growled. ``Like we called
it right. They won't touch the front gate until they've drawn out as
many as our soldiers as they can.''

``They'll keep testing us with Revenants,'' the Iron Prince said. ``To
suss out what Chosen we have at hand. Old Bones like to know the face of
the opposition before he puts his back into the swing.''

``The Revenants will be handled by Named,'' Lady Dartwick calmly said.
``A defence plan was designed by Queen Catherine and the White Knight,
before his departure. Our concern is to be the traditional forces.''

Beatrice cleared her throat, claiming attention.

``Have our Firstborn friends confirmed our suspicions?'' she asked.

Mighty Sagasbord coolly smiled. Its Chantant when it spoke was eerily
perfect, and Beatrice knew enough of drow to know such proficiency could
only be gained by wholesale slaughter of her countrymen. As always, that
serene mask over the madness made her skin crawl.

``We dig for truth still,'' Mighty Sagasbord said. ``But the Tomb-Maker
itself leads us, Hainaut Princess. There is no need for\ldots{}
uneasiness.''

That it could tell she feared it only made it more unpleasant to deal
with.

``There's not much to do but wait,'' Prince Klaus Papenheim gruffly
said. ``No dishonour in that, it's the way war is. Some of us should try
to get some sleep: the dead will try to run us into the ground, it's one
of Keter's favourite tricks.''

As all here knew, but when such a renowned veteran spoke the words it
gave others the opening to do so without shaming themselves. The Iron
Prince was not without his kindnesses, for all that like most Lycaonese
he cared little for social graces.

``I may retire for a few hours, then,'' Princess Beatrice said. ``It
would be better to be fully rested when I relieve Captain-General
Catalina from her command on the western wall.''

Captain Nadila snorted, eyeing her with open disdain.

``Will you be returning to your palace for it, Princess Beatrice?'' the
painted Levantine asked.

The orc on the other side of the table chuckled. General Bagram received
a cocked eyebrow from Lady Dartwick for it, but she took no further
issue and he looked undaunted. It was the Iron Prince's unsurprised face
that stung the most, though. Like he'd expected her to be the first to
retire. Beatrice's fingers closed around her cup. Perhaps he had. It was
not disdainful, but even now the Iron Prince thought of Alamans as
\emph{soft} -- always it was they who balked, who slowed, who mutinied
even as others bled to drive the dead out of their lands. And that
belief, Beatrice Volignac found it reflected in the eyes of everyone
here. She'd had it directed at her before, the look, when people though
that because she was fat it meant she was weak or stupid. But it wasn't
about her this time, was it? Not really.

It was all Alamans that were being looked down on. And she could see the
shape of it, almost. What great names had come of her people in this
war? Cordelia Hasenbach was Lycaonese, Rozala Malanza was Arlesite and
even the Kingfisher Prince, Frederic Goethal, preferred the company of
northerners to his own kind while openly disdaining the games of the
Highest Assembly. And it was unfair, Beatrice thought, for her people
\emph{were} brave. They were gallant and stubborn and love freedom more
fiercely than any other under the sun, but what did it matter to these
few before her now? All they saw was an Alamans shackle around the Grand
Alliance's foot. And this was larger than Beatrice, than House Volignac
or perhaps even royalty, but here and now it was her that the looks
stung.

``I am not yet sure,'' Princess Beatrice evenly replied. ``Regardless, I
will first go to our rampart and assess the situation there.''

It was her home being fought for, she thought. Sleep could wait for a
while still.

---

Catalina Ferreiro had become Captain-General of the \emph{Ligera
Bandera} a mere two years before the war against Keter began, an
appointment that had been like a noose around her neck ever since. She
had been a compromise candidate, she knew, that her decent battlefield
record and noble lineage had seen her elected by the officers because
they have her more respectable standing in the eyes of the rank and
file. The powerful banner-captains of the Ligera had meant to use her as
a figurehead while they privately continued the same infighting that'd
paralyzed the greatest fantassin company of the Principate so badly it
had been unable to even take a contract for the Tenth Crusade. Catalina
had thought herself clever, playing off Vargeras against Capistrant
until they'd spent themselves against each other and she had enough
support to muzzle Garrido on her own.

The prize she had won, unfortunately, was uncontested command of the
largest mercenary company on Calernia just as the first signs of the end
times were glimpsed the north. As Old Teresa was fond of saying, the
Gods never missed an opportunity to piss in the gruel of fantassins.

``Pitch and torches,'' the Captain-General bellowed. ``Burn that thing
or we'll lose the bastion.''

Catalina preferred the spear, but it was a useless weapon against the
dead so she'd taken to the halberd instead: with a grunt, she smashed
the axehead into the flank of the skeleton coming for her and toppled it
over the edge of the rampart. Her personal guard swept forward, smashing
into the loose formation of undead trying to keep her from reinforcing
the bastion where the \emph{Folies Rouges} were being hacked apart by
ghouls and the beorn that'd carried them up the cliff. Captain Reinald
had done well against the first wave, but the second had caught him by
surprise and now the entire western wall was at risk. If they lost that
bastion\ldots{} already the dead were trying to land ladders to solidify
the beachhead. Flicking a glance back through the sweaty locks matting
her helmet, she caught sight of the approaching torches. No more time to
waste.

``\emph{Ligera},'' Catalina shouted.

``\emph{Faith kept through fire},'' her soldiers shouted back,

They charged against into the dead, whose formation the undead officers
had not been quick enough to salvage. The Captain-General paced herself,
picking her foes carefully -- a thrust of her halberd pushed another
corpse over the wall, a sweeping descent shattered another's helmet and
broke the foul magics keeping it moving -- even as the front ranks of
her mercenary company plowed through the enemy line. A clear path to the
bastion, she thought.

``Torchmen,'' she screamed, ``with-''

Her words were drowned out by a thunderous roar as the beorn that'd been
tearing at the fantassins in the bastion abandoned its playthings there,
instead leaping down onto the rampart and casually sweeping half a dozen
men off the wall into the city below. Some might survive, Catalina
though, though they might not wish they had.

``Aim for the beorn,'' the Captain-General of the Ligera Bandera calmly
said. ``On my signal.''

Another seven men dead, the great abomination crushing them as easily as
a boot would an ant.

``Hold,'' Catalina Ferreiro said.

Another handful dead, the beast enjoying its rampage. With only a thin
stretch of wall to maneuver with and other soldiers behind them, her men
could do little but stand and die.

``Hold,'' she repeated through gritted teeth.

And finally, crushing a young woman like a pulped grape, the beorn came
close enough.

``\emph{Now},'' the Captain-General hissed.

Torches were put to the earthen jugs of pitch just before they were
thrown, of the ten thrown nine splattering across the monster's large
form. Flames burned clear and bright, spreading as they ate at dry dead
flesh and the beorn howled.

``Halberds to the front,'' Catalina ordered, breathing a sigh of relief.

The halberdiers hurried forward, hacking at the creature even as it was
destroyed by the flames and ensuring it would not smash into their
formation. It toppled into the city below and the fantassins hurried to
reinforce the bastion even as Catalina stayed behind long enough to
arrange for the wounded to be sent back. Her bodyguards closed in around
her as she followed into the bastion, finding the situation there had
turned around. Captain Reinald had holed up his men in corners while the
beorn rampaged but they'd come out swinging as soon as the beast was
gone so the ghouls were already on the backfoot when her reinforcements
arrived. She left the clearing out of the stragglers to her soldiers and
took of her helmet, seeking out Captain Reinald.

She found the fat man conversing with his wizards, an untended wound on
his arm that'd been inflicted through now-ripped mail. The captain of
the Folies Rouges dismissed his casters when he saw her approach,
offering a grateful nod.

``My thanks for drawing it away,'' Reinald said. ``All our pitch was
spent on the first three and we hadn't gotten fresh jugs yet.''

``I expect you'll have to return the favour before this is over,''
Catalina replied. ``Have you heard anything from further north?''

``The Bayeux footmen are holding strong,'' the older man replied.
``Prince Arsene made it clear he'll tolerate no retreat.''

Catalina breathed out a snort as Reinald smirked. Prince Arsene Odon did
not have a particularly inspiring reputation as a military commander,
though he wasn't as bad as some other royals. Still, he would never have
made it above company-captain in the Ligera.

``We'll need to start bringing in the smaller companies to freshen up
bloodied positions,'' Catalina said. ``I don't want to dilute our ranks
too much, but\ldots{}''

``No, I quite agree,'' Captain Reinald said. ``If we bleed our finest
soldiers dry too soon there'll be nothing but the dregs left fighting
come sunlight.''

She nodded in agreement. It might seem callous to dismiss some of her
fellow fantassin companies with so contemptuous a term, but some of them
were honestly no better than levies. Which brought to mind yet more
trouble.

``We'll need to keep a close eye on the Brabant conscripts,'' she
sighed. ``They keep breaking.''

``Prince Etienne croaking it did a number on them,'' Reinald
sympathetically said. ``That man was his principality's backbone. Didn't
help that the Iron Prince decided to pick them up by the throat
afterwards.''

``He did what he needed to,'' Catalina replied, but her tone was
lukewarm.

That Klaus Papenheim was one of the finest generals alive was not in
dispute -- though the Arlesite in Catalina had her fancying that Rozala
Malanza might give him a closer match than most -- but that he'd acted
like a\ldots{} Lycaonese wasn't either. The northerners liked their
tyrants, glorified them, but their southern cousins had never shared the
fascination. Tyrants there got knives, not statues. Had this been
another war, another man, many a company would have put coin together to
hire assassins over a man who'd arrested so many officers on such
spurious grounds. These were desperate times, of course, and the
officers \emph{had} been out of line. It was still a bitter pill to
swallow for all of them, Catalina thought, that the Iron Prince's
heavy-handed actions had not earned so much as a raised eyebrow from any
other great name.

Mind you, whoever it was that'd figured appealing to the \emph{Black
Queen} over an issue of \emph{military discipline} was a good idea
should be sent to Keter for raising in the hopes that the stupid was
infectious. Catalina liked the woman more than she figured she would
have, being a murderous heretic, and considered her a generally
reasonable superior officer. She was also someone who hanged her own
soldiers when they got sticky fingers and whose answer to a mutiny was a
lot more likely to be crucifixion than sympathy. It had to be the
\emph{Joyeux Chevaliers} that'd pushed for that, having some many noble
brats within their ranks had them believing they were clever
manipulators instead of expendable Highest Assembly catspaws.

``Sure he did,'' Captain Reinald grunted. ``Let's hope he doesn't find
it necessary to do it again.''

``We wouldn't have so weak a position if we could agree on a
representative,'' Catalina pressed. ``I know the Grizzled Fantassin
turned us down-''

She'd named an exorbitant price first, then noted that unless the Grand
Alliance itself could be outbid there was no point in trying to buy her
services. Old Teresa was said to be out in Mercantis these days, that
floating pleasure house of a city. Hard terms to beat, admittedly.

``- it can't be you,'' Captain Reinald frankly said. ``The Ligera has
too many enemies, you'll never get the votes.''

``It has to be \emph{someone}, Reinald,'' she exasperatedly said. ``If
not me then another. And quickly. We are\ldots{}''

Words failed her, for a moment, as the thought was hard to express. It
was not a particular indignation that had been weighing on Catalina
Ferreiro's mind but a hundred little signs, as if had some unknown
prophecy on the tip of her tongue but could not bring herself to speak
it.

``We're dying, Reinald,'' she quietly said. ``Fantassins, our trade.
You've seen the armies the rest of the world fields, now. Do you think
we could handle the Second Army or a few sigils of drow? Gods, even the
Levantines are making something of themselves.''

\emph{We don't have mages and priests}, Catalina thought. \emph{We don't
have sappers or Chosen. War is leaving us behind.} And the Principate
had been hardened by the war too, she could feel it. See in faces and
hear it in words. No one spoke of war as a part of the Ebb and Flow now,
as the game of princes where glories and fortune were wagered. Even
princes had grown harsher, and the wars they'd wage would grow harsher
with them. Would veterans of the war against Keter really hesitate to
torch a village? It had been against the unspoken laws of war in Procer,
once, but what did those childish things matter to someone who'd spent
three years fighting howling corpses as madness twisted the land around
them? There would be no return to the old days, after this came to an
end.

For better or worse.

``You're not wrong,'' Reinald muttered. ``Some of the things I've
heard\ldots{} But this is a discussion to finish when the enemy is no
longer at our gate, perhaps.''

Catalina nodded, then smiled.

``Tarry not,'' she hummed.

The other mercenary snorted, recognizing the words from the old song
everyone in their trade, from the greenest of boys to the most grizzled
of warwives, had heard at least once.

``Or we'll be dead,'' Captain Reinald finished.

Over the edge of the rampart, a skeleton dragged itself halfway onto
solid ground before a soldier smacked it down. The climbers were
beginning to reach the top, she realized with dread.

The skirmishing was over at last, and the battle had begun in truth.

---

Well, Roland thought, this was going to be a problem.

``So \emph{that's} why they kept dropping vultures and Revenants through
the wards,'' the Headhunter said.

He -- Roland had asked, as he couldn't discern the differences in her
facepaint that heralded either gender -- was looking at the same thing
that he was: a gate into Arcadia opening in the middle of a city street.
Which shouldn't be possible, the Rogue Sorcerer thought, considering
this city was thick with wards. \emph{But the dead had years to meddle
with the city after taking it}, he reminded himself. The Grand Alliance
reclaiming Hainaut and then repairing the old foundations as well as
slapping on fresh wards was not a comprehensive fix, despite the
frenzied efforts of their mages. At least it did not seem to be without
costs for the Dead King: the gate had only opened by subsuming a
Revenant and was opening rather slowly. They could not be opened with a
snap of one's finger, which was good news tacked on to the bad.

``We need to close it,'' the Rogue Sorcerer said. ``And find out any
other gate that might have been opened out of sight.''

``The city's bleeding magic everywhere, wizardling,'' the Headhunter
skeptically replied. ``We might as well look for a particular needle in
a box full of them.''

``Keter needs Revenants to make these,'' Roland replied, shaking his
head. ``There won't be many, and we'll have seen them falling.''

``There could have been more than one Revenant by bird,'' the Headhunter
shrugged. ``And they can run anywhere after the fall. We've only caught
one so far.''

Fair points, but only so long as providence refused to put a finger on
the scales. Roland would have to hope otherwise.

``There's another band out there roaming,'' he reminded the other. ``We
can only hope they will catch what we don't.''

He rose from his crouch before the Headhunter could answer, expecting
that otherwise he would be served a sermon on the subject of why the
three young souls with transitory Named also assigned to keeping the
streets clear were weak and so naturally doomed to failure. The other
man's opinions were more strident than thoughtful, in Roland's opinion,
but he saw nothing to be gained by arguing. The Headhunter's ways had
paid off for him, and people with full pockets didn't usually tend to
abandon the ways that'd filled them. A long casting rod of sculpted
ivory in hand, the Rogue Sorcerers leapt off the edge of the roof and
landed on the cobblestone street. The gate into Arcadia, a broad
rectangle at least twelve feet high and twice that in length, was
pulsing. \emph{Still stabilizing}, Roland thought. He brushed a hand
close to the surface, mustering his will.

``\textbf{Confiscate},'' he murmured.

It took, he found with some relief, but not as much as he would have
wanted it to. He was drawing from the active spell, but not the
foundations. The light of the portal began flickering wildly. All he was
achieving was further destabilizing the gate, not breaking it. Movement
from the corner of his eye had him drawing back, but not quite close
enough. A javelin, he saw just a heartbeat before it bit into his first
defensive enchantment and shattered it. A shell of light became visible
for a moment before shattering. A second flew out, but by then the
Headhunter was there and he swatted them down with insolent ease.

``Gate's not closed, wizardling,'' the Headhunter grunted. ``Get the
Hells on with it.''

\emph{I'm not sure I can}, Roland thought. If he could not confiscate
the sorcery, then he had to either overpower or shatter the gate --
which would require strength he did not have or for his knowledge to be
superior to that of the \emph{Dead King}. He was going to have to
improvise. If he couldn't break the gate itself, what were his options?
He cast a glance at the Headhunter.

``You have the head of a Damned who could empower magic, correct?''

``Amplify,'' the Headhunter corrected. ``And the heads only give weaker
imitations. What are you scheming?''

``I want,'' the Rogue Sorcerer boyishly grinned, ``to make this a much
\emph{larger} gate.''

He felt like tapping his foot, like humming an old song. He was only a
few mistakes away from dying, but wasn't that where he did all his best
work?

---

Princess Beatrice Volignac of Hainaut went utterly still, her horse
following suit.

Frost spread across the cobblestones like the breath of some wintry
beast, steam curling above it like fading stripes of lace as ghostly
lights set the shadows to dancing. It was as if a hole had been cut out
in the world, revealing some fantastic winter vista hidden behind the
curtains of Creation, and yet what had come out of it was not some
strange monster or fair lord. It was an intimately familiar sight. The
banner was what Beatrice recognize first, stirring as it was in the
wind. A golden griffin on blue, crowned by three daffodils, but it was
not the heraldry that made it distinct. It was the long haft of forever
unrotting whitewood it hung from, ending in a grown of pure gold set
with sapphires. Even streaked with ash and dust, Beatrice would have
recognized the royal banner of the House of Volignac anywhere.

Riders streamed out of the pale plains of snow on the other side, ranks
upon ranks of silent souls in beautiful enameled armour that rode steeds
of the finest coats. Their lances were raised tall, a forest of sharp
steel held up by unwavering hands, and at their head rode a beautiful
woman. Skin pale as milk could be seen through the open visor of her
helm, golden hair in a long braid going down her back. The armour she
wore was a gift from Beatrice's father, a family heirloom of
blue-painted steel etched with enchantments, and at her side the ornate
wooden sheath of the ancient blade of House Volignac, Mordante, rested
against her hip. And on her brow, atop her helm, a crown of gold had
been inlaid into the steel for her name was Julienne Volignac and she
had once rule Hainaut.

There was a gaping, bloody wound where her heart should be.

``Sister,'' Beatrice softly breathed out. ``Gods, what did they do to
you?''

She had taken a mere hundred riders with her as an escort when heading
for the western rampart, a pittance compared to the thousands Julienne
had taken with her on that last doomed charge to delay the dead long
enough for their people to escape. \emph{But only a few have crossed},
Beatrice thought. \emph{We can hold them at the gate.} She looked around
and found only fear on the faces of her soldiers. As much at the sight
of who it was they were fighting as the numbers, the princess thought.

``Bastien,'' she said, raising her voice as she addressed the captain of
her bodyguard. ``Go for reinforcements. Hurry.''

``Your Grace,'' the man replied, hesitating, ``what is it you intend?''

Beatrice Volignac breathed out, watching her sister's golden hair across
the street.

``I have you an order,'' she harshly said. ``Go.''

She heard him slink away, chastened. In the distance, Julienne Volignac
met her sister's eyes and smiled sadly. She brought down her visor,
lowered her lance.

``Look ahead,'' Princess Beatrice said, voice ringing out. ``That is
what Keter means to make of you.''

The Princess of Hainaut lowered her lance, and after a terrifying
heartbeat saw that her retinue followed suit.

``They gave their lives for everyone here,'' Beatrice said, throat
clogged up. ``So we could live, crawling through ash and dust to return
home another day.''

She pressed her knees against her mount, the destrier breaking into a
trot. Her retinue followed. The enemy, on the other side, lowered their
lances and began to advance.

``We're home now,'' Beatrice Volignac shouted. ``We're home, and tonight
\emph{we lay our ghost to rest}.''

Her soldiers roared, the thunder of hooves crashing against cobblestones
drowning out battlecries even as the two lines of horsemen rammed into
each other.

---

Catalina was not sure who it was that began to sing.

The world had turned black and white, chopped into moments of violence
and moments of relief, but through both songs had begun to wind their
way. There was nothing, the Captain-General thought with an exhausted
smiled, that Procerans loved more than a song. Even the ever-cold
Lycaonese thawed, when the time came to sing. There were more singers
than birds in Procer, it had once been said, and for every season and
hour there was a song. Or a poem, or a dance or another gesture of
beauty returned to the Creation that had given birth to all of them. And
wasn't that, in the end, the most beautiful thing about her home? Even
in the dark, they sang.

Perhaps in the dark most of all.

The dead came over the rampart, silent and relentless. Catalina battered
them over the edge, hacked and split and felt cold iron sink into her
arm when tiredness slowed her, but the tide would not end so neither
would she. And all around her, the Captain-General saw only bastards.
Mud nobles and cutthroats, peasants and shopkeepers, the leftovers of a
great realm with blades in hand. And still they held, her thousands of
brothers and sisters who too bore the name of \emph{fantassin}, her
fellow fools who traded life and limb for coin and a few boasts. And so
when the song poured out of her throat, she did not fight. What else was
there to do, when the world was so ugly, but to bring a sliver of beauty
in it?

\emph{``My father wept for a prince}

\emph{And died with a spear in hand.''}

The man by her side, covered in sweat and filth, shot her an incredulous
look and began laughing before cracking a skeleton's skull. He joined
his voice to hers.

\emph{``My mother hasn't wept since}

\emph{Or left a god un-damned.''}

It spread like a fire, snaking along the rampart and the bastion until a
thousand throats sang it, that old bastard song, the \emph{Sun In the
West}.

---

Beatrice Volignac was in the heart of the whirlwind, dancing with many
smiling deaths.

They fought desperately against the honoured dead, trading lances with
corpses until all were spent and furious melee with sword and shield
swept across the cobblestone. There was something burning in all their
bellies tonight that had devoured whole the fear, replaced it with
clenched teeth and hard eyes. Before them was the mockery Keter had made
of the finest gesture any of them had known, and what could they do but
quell it? Nothing less could be tolerated. So Beatrice traded blows with
a corpse in armour, ramming her blade into the throat and throwing it
down its undead mount before pushing forward. A blow glanced off her
shield and she answered with a hard cut, but it found no purchase in the
enemy's armour.

They were losing, the Princess of Hainaut knew. The charge had not been
enough. They had slowed the enemy's outpouring through the gate but not
cut it, and now they were being drowned. Yet she found, queerly, that
the thought did not mover her to fear. It would be a worthy death,
Beatrice decided, and such a thing was not to be feared. She was a
princess of the blood, a Volignac: what did she have to fear in this
world or any other, save for dishonour? So when the song came on the
wind, drifting like curl of smoke, the Princess of Hainaut laughed. She,
too, had once dreamed of being the one who would once again bring the
sun to west. A good song, she decided, to die singing.

\emph{``Maybe I'll go east, they say}

\emph{Swords there can win a crown.''}

Voices joined hers, as the dead hemmed them in and the last of them
gathered around the banner. The enemy were coming for them, for the
killing stroke. Through her visor, Beatrice met her sister's eyes as
Julienne approached with the ancient sword of their shared blood.

\emph{``Rule king a year and a day}

\emph{Be buried with great renown.''}

---

Roland hummed under his breath, one hand on a desiccated human head and
the other on a portal through which a great many people were trying to
kill him.

It was just going to be one of those nights, he figured.

``Is it working?'' the Headhunter asked with a grunt.

He carved through another skeleton's neck, kicking it into another's
path as it tried to cross. The villain had, impressively enough, been
holding the gate single-handedly all this time.

``Well,'' the Rogue Sorcerer mused, ``if it is, then-''

There was a deafening keening noise and the gate double in height before
beginning to shake.

``Wonderful,'' Roland grinned.

The Headhunter turned around, throwing an axe at him that cut through
the javelin someone had very unkindly thrown at Roland's chest.
Keterans, a people truly without manners.

``It's gotten bigger,'' the Headhunter noted, unimpressed. ``Is that it?
I thought it was-''

What looked like the maw of a beorn began to pass through the gate,
roaring angrily and cutting off the conversation. Rudeness upon
rudeness, truly. The other Named pulsed with a stolen aspect coming from
a head and tried to force the construct back, but Roland kept pushing
sorcery into the gate and amplifying the flow with the human head. Soon,
soon it would be ready. Mind you, he'd best not tarry long. How did the
song go again?

\emph{``Long ago, the tale goes,}

\emph{The sun rose in the west}

\emph{It might be it will again:}

\emph{Tarry not, or we'll be dead.''}

The Headhunter was thrown back into the street, hitting the wall of a
house and breaking through it, but Roland only smiled even as the beorn
turned towards him.

---

Beatrice's horse had died on the third pass, but she'd knocked her
sister down from hers so it had evened out the affair.

They had sparred on occasion, while they both lived, though in those
days Beatrice had not taken the blade all that seriously -- it had been
the horse and lance she preferred, finding bladework to be an ungainly
and sweaty affair. The spars had been measured, almost fond, more shared
time than any genuine test of each other. \emph{This} was nothing like
it. Beatrice desperately brought up her shield as the family sword,
Mordante, bit at the painted steel and let out a flash of light and
frost. She swung at Julienne's head, but her sister's shield was already
in place and they collided with each other as each tried to make the
other trip on the blood-strewn ground

``I will free you,'' Beatrice gasped through her helm. ``Gods, Julienne,
I swear. \emph{I will not leave you like this.}''

The enchanted sword kissed the top of her helm, freezing the visor shut,
but the Princess of Hainaut began hammering at her sister with her
shield. Julienne had the strength of undeath to her, the tirelessness,
but Beatrice was \emph{fat}. She was heavy, and muscled, and when she
struck her sister shook form the impact. Once, twice, thrice until
Julienne slipped on blood and bone and Beatrice followed her down. A
lance passed above her head, forced away by one of her last men at the
last moment, but the Princess of Hainaut's eyes were only for her
sister. Mordante bit into her side, frostburn creeping through her mail,
but Beatrice ripped off her sister's helm and met those blue eyes with
her own as she drew back.

\emph{``The fire turns to ember,}

\emph{I wake from a sorry dream}

\emph{Morning rides in pale splendour}

\emph{Chasing down a fading gleam.''}

``We will meet again,'' Beatrice whispered, ``in a better place.''

And down her sword went.

---

Roland of Beaumarais, nothing but a -- borrowed -- human head in hand,
smiled at the monster forcing its way out of the gate into Arcadia.

``This should do the trick,'' he announced, removing his hand from the
portal at last.

The magic he'd been drawing on stuttered, the bundle nearly empty, and
the Rogue Sorcerer offered the beorn as deep a bow as he could without
making the head dangle. The construct swatted at him, but he stepped
away even as the Headhunter rose from rubble and the clawed limb came
well short. The beorn seemed confused, as well it might be.

``The gate's frozen,'' the Rogue Sorcerer told it. ``Brilliant man,
Masego. His work his \emph{comprehensive}.''

Roland hadn't even noticed when that derivation had been added to the
ward schematics, but then that didn't matter. What did matter was that
the Dead King was not the only brilliant Trismegistan sorcerer in these
parts, which meant that what had been used here to make the gates was a
technicality and not a flaw. The last of the magic he'd fed the portal
was absorbed at last, and with a loud keen the portal's length began to
extend. It managed to grown another five feet, before the blind spot in
the wards laid down by the Hierophant was entirely outgrown and they
triggered with a vengeance.

``To borrow from a friend,'' Roland smiled, then raised his hand and
snapped his fingers.

The portal exploded in a pillar of power and light, the city wards
crushing it into nonexistence without mercy, and Roland de Beaumarais
was once more left to wonder at just how much he \emph{loved} magic.
There was always something new, wasn't there? The Headhunter caught up,
looking at him warily.

``Come on,'' the Rogue Sorcerer idly said. ``There will be other
portals.''

And, hands in pockets, he began to make his way down the street as he
sang the song that'd been on his mind all evening.

\emph{``The road is long and winding,}

\emph{Though I did it love it once}

\emph{And tread it still, searching}

\emph{The bottom of many cups.''}

Sometimes, even charlatans got to have a good turn.

---

Gods, but they were holding.

The Captain-General watched as ladders were brought to the walls and
undead scaled the cliffs. Stones and logs were thrown at them, burning
oil poured on ladders and Light filled the air as priests began turning
the wrath of Above on the dead. It was a narrow, wavering thing but they
were holding. And now the reinforcements were pouring in, lesser
companies freshening the ranks of the greater and bringing with them
well-rested hands. Mages were beginning to rotate in, cadres trained in
the Arsenal, and though their magics were simple when turned on a single
great monster in concert they were also often successful. Catalina
withdrew from the rampart, exhausted enough her vision swam, but after a
tonic and rest she would return.

She sat by a fire, her bodyguards close around her, and drank deeply
from a waterskin. She smiled as she hear the chorus of the song rise
again, perhaps the tenth time it had been sung tonight. The Sun In the
West was often sung as wistful or angry -- there was a reason it was
familiar to taverns but rare in courts -- but tonight it was, instead,
almost defiant.

\emph{``Long ago, the tale goes,}

\emph{The sun rose in the west}

\emph{It might be it will again:}

\emph{Tarry not, or we'll be dead.''}

\emph{Our sun has faded}, Catalina thought, \emph{but it has not yet
set.} There was still blood in the veins of the lumbering beast known as
the Principate, and perhaps after the war\ldots{} Lightning struck at
the bastion and a howling gale swept over it, hundreds dying in the
blink of an eye as Catalina was thrown against a wall and bit her lip as
she felt her collarbone break. The storm screamed, and two silhouettes
landed on the stone.

The Scourges had arrived.
