\hypertarget{interlude-west-ii}{%
\section{Interlude: West II}\label{interlude-west-ii}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``The easy wars are the ones where one side's right and the
other's wrong. The terrible ones are where they're both right, because
once they know that there's no wrong they'll flinch away from.''}

-- Aretha the Raven, Nicaean general
\end{quote}

They were losing the war one victory at a time, Hanno thought.

There'd not been a defeat in Hainaut since the great battle that'd
destroyed the principality, and still its defenders were losing the
land. Hanno among them. Undaunted by a string of defeats in the fields,
the Dead King had begun attacking with renewed vigour and it was
working. The trouble was that while Hanno's army had been crushing the
dead wherever they met, it could only be in one place. It could not both
prevent the dead from reopening the tunnels at Malmedit and prevent them
from breaking through at Juvelun, it could not both fight the army
coming from Luciennerie out west and relive General Abigail from the
latest siege at Lauzon's Hollow.

Hanno's army was spent and exhausted, ever victorious and ever smaller.
And even worse was that they were no longer truly an effective shield.
The Dead King had begun ignoring the defences in Hainaut and sending
large flying constructs -- named Pelicans, for their head resembled
those of the birds -- over the walls to disgorge warbands in Arans and
Brabant, where they wreaked havoc before being slain. The Pelicans
themselves avoided fighting, however, and though Antigone had brought
down several with storms and lighting more kept coming. General Abigail
believed that soon Keter would begin landing mages the same way to
create disrupting forces by slaying and raising villages.

The Fox's instincts were sharp enough that Hanno was not inclined to
doubt them.

From what he heard, it was much the same to the west. Princess Rozala
and her Named had pulled off a miracle just south of Peroulet but the
defence line there had still failed for a time and it'd been costly to
restore it. To the northwest, the Kingfisher Prince had smashed through
every army on his way south to Brus while a sea of undeath nipped at his
heels. Then to win his home some respite Frederic Goethal had turned
back with half a dozen Named and his retinue to destroy a Crab, getting
severely wounded. He would have gotten himself dead instead, had Otto
Redcrown not ridden to his rescue and led their retreat through an
avalanche. The love ballad about it was highly popular in camp.

Yet for all that the singing did the souls of soldiers good, it did not
change the truth of things: the defences south of Cleves were teetering
on the brink of collapse and those north of Brus would not hold when the
tide came. Everywhere the war was being lost, and as was always the way
when doom crept close men looked for someone to blame. The Army of
Callow was the least harmful, simply insisting that if the Black Queen
were there the dead would already be routed, but others were not so
measured. The First Prince was cursed for weakness, Amadis Milenan men
lost at the Battle of the Camps that might now turn the tide and the
League of Free Cities for having made it all worse.

It was worse between Procerans. Lycaonese blamed feckless southerners,
having lost half their princes and all their homes defending strangers
they held in contempt, while Alamans cursed the Lycaonese for having
drained their lands of men to defend the indefensible and Arlesites for
being miserly in helping with the defence of the realm. As for the
Arlesites, more and more they questioned their very presence in these
parts. Why should they stand against nightmares when their own homes
were yet untouched? Should they all die and leave their homeland
undefended for when the storm came? Desertions would have been common if
there was anywhere safer to flee to. Hanno had kept the army from coming
anywhere near Neustal, knowing he'd lose hundreds to Julienne's Highway
overnight should he approach the fortress.

Hanno had been giving hope where he could, though not always in manners
comfortable to him. Too many called him Lord White, and some of the
rumours from further south\ldots{} He had pushed down the discomfort, it
was a small price to pay for keeping the armies from despair. The
Lycaonese captains he had supported when the northerners had almost
split over returning to their homelands had begun to look to him for
orders, like the Brabantine levies, and even fantassins now sought his
commands instead of Princess Beatrice Volignac's -- she whose very lands
they were fighting in. There was a time where Hanno would have taken a
step back, after realizing he now led what was effectively the second
largest military force left in Procer, but no more.

The Truce and Terms had been forged under an understanding: he and
Catherine would see to the affairs of Named while Cordelia Hasenbach saw
to the affairs of state. It was never to be a perfect arrangement, not
when Catherine Foundling was also an influential ruler in her own right,
but there had been a balance. All contribute, all held up their part.
Only now the First Prince no longer did. Reinforcements were no longer
coming, the flow of soldiers and supplies tapering off. Salia was not
holding up its part of the bargain, the promise that mortal law could
see the war prosecuted without need for Named to step in. So what reason
was there for Hanno to step back?

He would not hide behind a broken bargain when his duty was clear.

And so he had spoken with Antigone, who had spoken in turn with the only
father she remembered. Which led him to a cool morning, standing with
only her at his side as in the distance the sun rose and a brisk wind
twisted around them. In the distance smoke rose in curtains, Keter's
armies ever making a hundred fresh devilries to unleash, but here on the
hills the only thing to mar the green grass was soft dew. Greenery and
water shivered both as the Witch of the Woods finished the last of her
spell, clouds high above dispersing as if they'd been swatted through. A
weight settled on the world, dew turning to mist as the grass began to
twist and grow.

In the rising mists stood a giant out of the old stories. Bronze-skinned
like others of his kind, but none of the Gigantes would ever dare to
claim kinship with Kreios Maker-of-Riddles. It would have been absurd,
in their eyes, as a fly claiming kinship to a hawk. The Titanomachy kept
to no king, but that was only because it kept to something simpler: a
god. There had been many, once, but now only one still lived. Crippled,
left a shadow of himself. And yet Hanno knew without a doubt that even
the spell-shadow now staring down at him could snuff his existence out
with a thought. The ancient Titans, the founders of the Titanomachy, had
done a great many arrogant things.

Calling themselves gods had not been one of them.

``Antigone.''

The voice was fond, thick with affection. Hanno's comrade shifted, head
dipping down and to the side to show both love and reverence. What had
led Antigone to be raised by the Titan he did not know, much less what
had convinced the ancient creature to teach her of the powers of the
Gigantes, but their closeness had been evident from the first time he'd
seen them. The Riddle-Maker had no such fondness for him, however, and
the gaze was not so kind when turned to Hanno.

``White Knight.''

``Lord Titan,'' Hanno replied, simply dipping his head.

Reverence but not love. Insincerity in the language of the Gigantes was
seen as highly offensive. Worse than an insult, which at least was
clearly conveyed.

``I am told you would make a request.''

He straightened.

``I would,'' Hanno said. ``This war, Lord Kreios, is one we are
losing.''

``So it is.''

The indifference was plain to hear. The Riddle-Maker did not involve
himself much in the affairs of his own descendants, much less these of
humans. To that pale and patient gaze, they were like mayflies: come and
gone in a moment. What did petty wars matter to the last of the Titans?

``It will not be like the others,'' Hanno said. ``The Intercessor has
meddled. Should it be lost, there will be consequences.''

The Titan's gaze was cold.

``To you.''

``You are wrong, Lord,'' Hanno replied. ``If this were a crusade,
perhaps, but this war is not that. The east came as well, and now the
south rises. The world stirs. \emph{This war will not be like the
others}.''

Consideration.

``The Young King no longer withholds strength.''

A concession.

``Your request?''

Hanno breathed in. Many a time he had thought of what he might say, of
what words might sway an entity that had known more years he had known
breaths. A hundred speeches he had crafted and discarded, only to admit
the truth to himself: there were no words that would do it. Convince the
Riddle-Maker should he not wish to be convinced. All he could do was ask
and hope.

``\emph{Fight},'' Hanno of Arwad said, and the word rang of power.
``Stand with Calernia, with life and hope. Stand with us and fight.''

Silence.

``All things pass,'' Kreios Maker-of-Riddles said. ``You and he alike.
Fate cannot be gainsaid or turned back: what must be will be.''

``Apathy?'' Hanno replied. ``Is that your answer, last of the Titans? Is
that the wisdom your many years have to offer us?''

He glared, defiant.

``I see no wisdom in this,'' he said. ``Only weariness, and what worth
is that? Who in this world is not weary, Riddle-Maker?''

``There is no word in any tongue your mind can comprehend,'' the Titan
said, ``that would touch a sliver of what true weariness is. How could
you? You grope at a speck of dust in the face of eternity and call it an
\emph{end}. You are not even a beginning, child. You are the dust of
dust.''

``Then what holds you back?'' Hanno challenged. ``If none of it matters,
if we are but dust, what stays your hand?''

The dark-skinned man raised his chin, glaring up at the shape in the
mist.

``Retreat from the world all you like, it does not retreat from you,''
Hanno said. ``It will knock at your door, Maker-of-Riddles. It may be
that you would weather our destruction, but would the Titanomachy?''

``All things pass,'' the Riddle-Maker simply said.

Hanno scornfully laughed.

``It may be that you are worse than the elves,'' he said. ``Even they,
in the face of oblivion, can muster more than a \emph{shrug}.''

That, at last, earned a reaction.

``If you knew the truth of your insult, you would swallow your tongue,''
the Titan said. ``What the Dawning King schemes is abomination.
Parcelling godhead into children, forcing a spring rightfully denied.''

``And this shines kindness on you?'' Hanno coldly said. ``What a prize
to claim, that your apathy is less a curse on Calernia than
abomination.''

``Your fight means nothing,'' the Titan said.

``He's right,'' Antigone said.

Silence. Surprise.

``Antigone?''

``We don't deserve saving,'' the Witch of the Woods said. ``It's still
true, what you told me when I was a child: we are petty creatures,
humans. Most of us are not worth the saving.''

The last of the Titans watched the woman he had raised, wearing her face
of painted clay, and said nothing.

``But it's not about us,'' Antigone said. ``It's about you.''

She moved her head to the side, titled it back. Grief, question.

``You stand at the crossroads again,'' Antigone said. ``Do you want to
be the seven or the one?''

Hanno's eyes narrowed. He had known that pattern to be older than most
suspected, but whatever ancient lore she was speaking of was beyond even
the reach of Recall. The Riddle-Maker's pale eyes stayed on the woman
he'd raised, silence stretching, and suddenly the pressure vanished. The
mist dispersed and the wind began to blow again. The spell-shadow of
Kreios was gone.

``Will he come?'' Hanno asked.

Antigone's shoulders were tense. \emph{I don't know}, she signed. Hanno
of Arwad ruefully smiled, looking up at the sky. This morning the answer
had been a no, he thought.

It was a small step forward, but still a step.

---

It was Lyonis that had done it, Cordelia decided.

On the great map at the heart of the Vogue Archive, the grey of death
had spread. Bremen and Neustria were both lost to the dead and already
the norther border of Brus was being tested. Once the generals of the
Dead King had found paths through the swamps, once the thousands of
Lycaonese slain were armed and assembled into battalions, the push into
Brus would begin and the death knell of Procer would ring. And yet those
news had not resonated strongly, down south -- only Lycaonese
principalities had fallen and Cordelia's homeland was barely considered
part of the Principate in some parts.

It was when the dead had smashed through the last few strongholds in
Cleves and toppled the hastily raised defences in northern Lyonis that
the panic had begun to spread. Princess Rozala had done the impossible
-- won three battles in three days with the same army across a breadth
of sixty miles -- and broken the enemy offensive before restoring the
defences, but some had still slipped through. For the first time since
the war had begun, bands of undead had made into Lyonis. One had even
made it as far south as the border of Salia before being ridden down.

Despite Cordelia's best efforts to maintain the calm, planting rumours
it'd been bandits instead, panic had spread like a disease in every
direction. The people of the Principate were being confronted with the
fallibility of the realm they'd been under all their lives, the thought
finally occurring that this wasn't simply another crisis: Procer would
be annihilated if it lost and it was undeniably losing the war.

Riots had been only to be expected. In Salia at least Cordelia had been
able to put down largely without blood using the alchemical compound the
Concocter had sold the Assembly the recipe to. Elsewhere the rioting had
been put down violently if it had been put down at all. Entire swaths of
Iserre were now in revolt against both Cordelia and their own prince
while the ports of eastern Creusens had seized grain barges meant for
further north before beginning to turn away all ships. That was not the
worst of it, of course. This very morning her spymaster Louis de
Sartrons had brought news of a smaller but more personal grief.

Princess Francesca, her friend and ally of almost a decade, was dead.
Her palace had been swarmed by a mob of rioters and disaffected
soldiers, who'd dragged the sixty-four years old princess into the
streets and splattered her head with a rock before displaying her on a
pole. It had happened, Cordelia was told, because Francesca had refused
to consider what her distant cousin and successor proclaimed within the
hour: Tenerife was seceding from the Principate of Procer. Envoys were
being sent, Louis had told her, to Empress Basilia of Aenia and the
League of Free Cities. Tenerife was leaving a sinking boat in favour of
the protection that might be offered by a rising one.

The principality of Orense had followed suit within the week, deposing
its distant prince still fighting under Princess Rozala and installing
his youngest daughter in his stead, a thirteen-year-old girl who signed
whatever the rebel leaders put in front of her to avoid having her
throat cut and her ten-year-old brother shoved into the seat instead.
Those were the open rebellions, but there were those more discreet.

Cordelia's steadfast ally Prince Renato of Salamans had regretfully
informed her he would no longer be able to send food and men north. If
he did, he would lose this throne within the month. Prince Salazar of
Valencis had done the same thing but less honestly, speaking instead of
`unforeseen delays' in sending both. Cordelia's authority strengthened
the further north one went, it could be said, but even there it was
thinning. Orne, Cantal and Creusens now refused refugees at their
borders no matter what was ordered. The only principalities that still
obeyed Cordelia were those who felt the Dead King looming over them and
even that rule was not ironclad.

Panic was making men do foolish things. Prince Ariel of Arans, spooked
by the growing incursions of the dead into his lands, was trying to
approach Callow for protection again -- and willing to go under Laure
for it, should that be the price. Cordelia was more amused than
offended, knowing that neither Queen Catherine nor Princess Vivienne
would be remotely interested and that Duchess Kegan, the regent in the
capital, was of the opinion that everything east of the Parish should be
left to burn. Worse than that was the talk in Brabant, where civil
unrest had been placated only by the ruling princess abdicating and
promising the offer the crown to the man the people saw as their
salvation: Hanno of Arwad, the White Knight.

Cordelia's agents had told her when the Brabant levies had begun to call
the man `Lord White' but, now that the sentiment was spreading through
their homeland, she was facing the very real prospect of \emph{Prince}
White. The First Prince was not sure she had the votes to prevent
confirmation of such a title by the Highest Assembly if the matter came
before them. It was a sign of the times. Salia's authority was weakening
and now a hundred petty kings were emerging from the cracks on a
once-great realm. And yet what could she do? So very little, when it
came down to it, but that was no excuse for inaction and apathy.

Cordelia Hasenbach would not stand before the Heavens having known idle
hands while the Principate of Procer burned down around her.

And today she would be laying eyes on one of the ways she might yet stem
the tide. The weapon had been moved out of Aisne, which was now too
close to for her tastes, and brought to Salia itself. Outside the city
proper, requiring an hour's ride there and back, but Cordelia would make
the time to look at the angel's corpse with her own eyes regardless. The
test done in Aisne had made it necessary: if the First Prince was to use
such a weapon, she would first gaze upon it. It was the last of what was
owed. The man she'd chosen to oversee the matter awaited her at the edge
of the grounds, mounted as well, as Cordelia allowed herself a genuine
smile: even in these circumstances, it was a pleasure to see Simon de
Gorgeault again.

``Your Most Serene Highness,'' the older man said.

``Simon,'' she warmly replied.

She had not forgotten his actions during Balthazar's attempted coup, or
his loyal service since as her Lord Inquisitor. He'd put down the title
to serve here instead, but it had taken little urging. They both knew
that spending time curtailing the House of Light now be much like
closing the blinds on a home aflame. Besides, she had needed someone she
could trust to handle this. He led her through the small houses where
the priests and soldiers lived and to the temple that had been chosen to
host the corpse. Larger than such a temple out in the countryside should
be, for it hosted the tomb of some distant Merovins, but not a structure
of great beauty: it was all worn pale stone and tall angular ceilings.

Once windows of tainted glass would have added some charm, but over the
years some had been broken and replaced by simple green glass. Yet the
temple was large enough and it was placed far from prying eyes, which
was what had been required.

``I would advise that you gather yourself before entering, Your
Highness,'' Simon said after they dismounted. ``It is\ldots{} an
experience.''

Cordelia silently nodded, eyes going down to her palm. She could faintly
feel the burn of laurels against it, a pale echo of the searing pain she
had felt the night she caught the coin of the Sword of Judgement. Simon
de Gorgeault led the way into the temple, guards closing the gates
behind them, and silence washed over Cordelia. It was as if the air had
turned to water, and though she gulped down breaths she found her heart
going wild. Simon's cheeks were flushed but he seemed otherwise
unaffected, perhaps from practice. Cordelia eventually gathered her
bearings, smoothing down her dress and proceeding further into the
temple.

There must have been rooms and halls she walked through, but she could
barely see any of them. The slipped through her mind as if it were oily
fingers. All that the First Prince recalled was movement, and then she
stood before it. The weapon. The ealamal. It felt like the bones of a
grand creature, curving along the ceiling, but there was nothing natural
in this: wings of burnished copper spread wide, touching\ldots{}
something. A spine, Cordelia's mind insisted, but it was not of bone.
Her eyes shied away from it and what she could glimpse seemed like stone
sometimes, though impossibly small compared to the burning wings of
copper, and yet at others it seemed like translucent spike of swirling
colours. Her eyes watered from trying to look at it.

``Only priests capable of wielding Light can look directly at it, Your
Highness,'' Simon said.

``The wings seem as though they might be simply copper, but the\ldots{}
spine,'' Cordelia quietly said. ``That is not of Creation.''

``You have not looked long as the wings, then,'' Simon said. ``That is
for the best. I have known shallower seas.''

Cordelia shivered.

``But it worked, when used?'' she asked.

``It is as an amplifier for Light, and something more too,'' Simon
agreed. ``It carries something of the Choir of Judgement within itself
and spreads it wherever it goes. It would incinerate undead and devils
it touches, certainly, but beyond that the matter grows complicated.''

``It did not kill anyone who could use Light,'' Cordelia said.

``But it killed soldiers as well as the criminals, Your Highness,''
Simon said. ``Not all of them, but many. Should a wave of such power
pass over Procer, hundreds of thousands will almost certainly die.''

Judgement was strict and not inclined to mercy when doling out
punishment. The weapon, when used, seemed to mimic the harsh attentions
of that Choir. And people were only people, with all the frailties and
wickedness that implied. Should the weapon be used on a large scale,
many thousands would be slain. But not all of the Principate, Cordelia
thought. Many, too many, but not \emph{all}. And even should Catherine's
worst predictions come true and the Intercessor seek to influence such a
weapon -- which should not be possible, with Judgement silenced by the
Hierarch's spirit -- to spread over all of Calernia, it would not
represent annihilation. Some would survive. It would be a monstrous
order to give and a horrifying outcome, the First Prince would not
pretend otherwise.

It would still be preferable to letting the Dead King kill every living
thing on the continent.

``Have it prepared for use,'' Cordelia rasped out.

The former head of the Holy Society stiffened.

``I have misgivings, Your Highness,'' Simon said. ``I understand your
instinct: it will take months of priests pouring Light to make of the
corpse something that would give the Dead King pause. Yet such power,
when gathered, has a way of demanding use.''

``In five months, the Principate will collapse,'' the First Prince of
Procer said.

The older man paused.

``We have too many refugees, Simon, and not enough fields,'' she said.
``I have been staving off the end by buying every scrap of grain I can
borrow and beg, but the point of no return has come and gone. We have
too many refugees and not enough fields, we are no longer sustainable.''

``Can Keter not be toppled?'' the older man asked.

``Undead will be at the gates of Salia by the time our armies encamp
below the walls of the Crown of the Dead,'' Cordelia said. ``I expect by
then the south will have effectively seceded anyhow. I have ensured our
armies will have supplies to carry on that last strike, but I can do no
more than that.''

``Can the Chosen not turn the tide?'' Simon asked, almost plaintively.

``The Chosen,'' Cordelia hissed, ``are the backbone of our defeat. How
much time did we spend wrestling them into order as again and again they
threatened the foundations of the alliances keeping us alive? The Damned
might be a pack of rapacious killers, but they never gave us half the
trouble the \emph{Chosen of the Heavens} did. The Red Axe, the Mirror
Knight, even the White Knight himself.''

She clenched her fists.

``I was promised that the Named would be seen to, but in this only the
Black Queen kept her word,'' Cordelia Hasenbach harshly said. ``The
White Knight failed utterly in this, and I will not now rely on him when
the fate of every living soul in Calernia rests in the balance.''

She stared down Simon of Gorgeault.

``Have it prepared for us,'' the First Prince repeated, and this time
the ring of an order was unmistakeable.

The laurels burned against her palm, but Cordelia did not flinch. She
would do what she must so keep the west in the war until the last
moment. And should it stumble, should it fail?

She would, again, do what she must.
