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\epigraph{``You'd be surprised at the breadth of things that can be powered
by the souls of the innocent. Fortresses, swords, my favourite
chandelier.''}{Dread Empress Malevolent II}



Calling how they moved a formation would have been inaccurate.

A tide, maybe, or wisp of fog. The grey-brown cloaks fluttered behind
them as the Watch charged towards the fortress, the fae only recovering
from the sight of my right hand slaughtering their champion when the
Deoraithe were mere feet away from the base of the rampart. A volley of
flame-touched arrows bloomed, but it was like trying to catch smoke in
your hand: the flames touched only the ground and the Watch began its
ascent. Duchess Kegan had said that they wouldn't need ladders, and now
I saw why. Every soldier took out a pair of steel stakes and I watched
as the first to move forward leapt up before ramming his first stake
into the stone. Using it as support, he threw himself up and bit into
stone with his other stake. A flick of the wrist got the first stake out
of the stone, and then he hoisted himself up again. Twenty feet up the
wall, in the blink of an eye. \emph{Merciless Gods}, I thought. I might
have been able to do that, but one of my soldiers? Suddenly Daoine's
dream of taking the fight to the elves seemed more than an elaborate
ritual suicide.

The fae did not lose their composure, continuing to pour down arrows. At
my side Duchess Kegan raised her hand again, a black scarf in hand. The
three thousand remaining soldiers of the Watch, longbows already strung,
released a volley of their own. The arc was perfect, almost pleasurable
to watch, at though the projectiles were mere steel they scythed through
the Summer fairies who'd been careless enough to leave the protection of
the crenels. A burning log was tossed over the rampart but the Deoraithe
did not miss a beat. Those allowed room by the angle pressed themselves
against the stone and let it pass them by, and a woman whose chest would
have been caved in instead leapt \emph{atop} the log, using it to leap
again upwards and resume climbing with her stakes. \emph{And Grem
One-Eye beat them}, I thought. \emph{When they were defending their own
damned wall.} I'd always thought that in a few years after she was
seasoned Juniper would be the best tactician on Calernia, bar none, but
what I saw was forcing me to reconsider. It was one thing to beat
devils, another to crush \emph{this.}

Less than eighty heartbeats after they'd begun moving, just after
another volley shot by the Watch who'd stayed behind forced the fae to
take cover, the first Deoraithe landed on top of the wall. The fighting
then was not so one-sided: Kegan's monsters were quicker and stronger
than humans had any right to be, but so were the fae. Longsword met
longsword as a dozen footholds formed on the rampart, but the Watch had
not been deployed to take the wall. As soon as the last Deoraithe made
it up, the clusters moved again and disappeared into the fortress.
Headed for the gate, no doubt. \emph{My turn.} Nauk's men made way for
me as I marched to the front of the two thousand legionaries of the
Fifteenth, eyes on the still-closed gates. Adjutant joined me moments
later, armour blackened by the sorcery of the baron he'd put down.

``They're impressive,'' the orc gravelled. ``Maybe the finest soldiers
on Calernia, pound for pound.''

I hummed, not disagreeing. Now that the initial shock at their
performance had waned, though, I felt that I was missing something. Only
a quarter of Duchess Kegan's army was made up by the Watch. Why, if they
were so effective? If she had twenty thousand of them the Wall would
never have fallen during the Conquest. Were there requirements to being
able to become part of the Watch? It couldn't be that they were all
mages. Deoraithe weren't known to birth a lot of those, and no one had
five thousand mages to field save for Praes -- who'd bred those numbers
up over millennia -- and perhaps Procer, by sheer dint of its
population's size.

``Resource investment,'' I murmured.

Hakram raised a brow.

``Legion officers and mages take half a decade to train properly,'' I
said. ``The Empire can bear that because it's rich and its population
large. Daoine is a \emph{duchy}, not a kingdom. They might not have the
means to support too many of those -- that kind of power can't come
without a material cost.''

Praesi were wealthy beyond comprehension and cheated with blood
sacrifices besides, otherwise raising even a single flying fortress
would beggar the Tower for half a decade. Deoraithe didn't have that
shortcut available, though. Them grabbing people to sacrifice, even if
they kept it strictly in-house, would have been noticed eventually.

``Every time one of them dies a small fortune goes up in smoke,'' Hakram
grasped, brow creasing. ``They do have the population to field a larger
army than twenty thousand. A choice was made.''

``Quality over quantity,'' I said. ``They began treading that path long
before the Reforms took Praes down the same road.''

Duchess Kegan's hand, then, was not as strong as she had been
pretending. How many years would it take to replace any casualty
incurred by the Watch? She might be able to afford that in times of
peace, but if she ever warred against the Empire her treasury would be
bleeding out from a dozen different unavoidable expenses. If I could
realize this at a glance, I had a hard time believing that Malicia and
Black could not. Was that why they'd never acted like they considered
Daoine a real threat? Something to keep in mind, when I next spoke with
the duchess. It was not long after we finished speaking that the gates
began moving, a dozen silhouettes on each side pushing the massive
copper things open. In front of them the rest of the Watch had clustered
together in a tight formation, and the moment the way was clear they
began a smooth and almost leisurely retreat. I unsheathed my sword,
raising the blade.

``FIFTEENTH,'' I screamed. ``ADVANCE!''

The nut had been cracked open. Now the butcher's work could begin. The
ranks behind were four hundred broad, following behind just short of a
run as Hakram and I took point. The retreating Deoraithe split around
us, a few of them ceasing their retreat just long enough to shoot arrows
at fae trying to close the gates before we arrived. \emph{Fifty feet}, I
gauged. The soldiers of Summer behind the gate hurriedly sent a volley
at the Fifteenth, the same kind of chest-height shots that had torn
through the Gallowborne. This wasn't my retinue, though. It was a full
\emph{jesha} of two thousand, half the forces making up a regular Legion
of Terror. These men had been trained to deal with mages, and without
missing a beat the mage lines within the Fifteenth returned fire. A wave
of fireballs flew, tailored for size instead of strength or speed: the
spells taught in the War College were not the most powerful or the most
effective. They were the most \emph{flexible}, the formula easy to
adjust for the situation. Every mage cast, and when the large balls of
flame met the arrows a curtain of flame flickered across the grounds.
Not a single projectile made it through. Heat licking at my face, I
strode through the already-fading fire. \emph{Twenty feet.}

``Been a while since we were in a scrap side-by-side,'' I said.

``Liesse, I think,'' Hakram mused. ``Learned a few things since then.''

``So have I,'' I said. ``Try to keep up.''

There were maybe ten feet between me and the fae when I dashed forward,
sinking into my Name. I'd always found clarity in doing that, in
allowing the world to slow as my perception deepened and my blade
followed, but it was different now. The air no longer felt just crisp,
it was \emph{cold} -- like a windless winter night, everything tinged
with frost. An arrow flew towards my throat but my sword came up without
missing a beat, slapping it to the side as I pivoted on myself and fell
on the first rank of the fae. At my side a roar sounded and blood
sprayed high as Adjutant began to paint in red. We hit their line like a
trebuchet stone, ploughing straight through. There was no room for
elaborate tactics, here, no Lion Devours Gazelle. If they didn't hold
the gate, they were done for: they had to stand and fight. It would be a
red gutter before long, and the gutter was where I shone. One of the fae
threw tongues of flame at me and I didn't even bother to dodge them:
they hit my armour head on with only hissing steam to show for it, the
ice-cold steel unmarred. My shield hit the opponent in the stomach,
smashing him back, and I gutted him with a clean sword stroke.

Adjutant stood at my side, sweeping the enemy aside with wild laughter
as we drive deeper and deeper. There was a deafening sound behind us as
Nauk's heavies impacted the fae line, orcs and humans in a
tightly-locked shield wall beginning their push. This was not the kind
of battle the Summer fae were meant for, I thought. Not these, anyway.
Mere swords and bows were no match for the implacable advancing steel
wall of the Legions of Terror. The path Hakram and I were carving
through the enemy filled with soldiers, a wedge in the enemy formation
that split them. Already they were wavering -- the Watch had killed
hundreds on their way through, and what stood behind us now was not the
full strength of the enemy. There still had to be some left on the
walls.

``\emph{Spargere},'' an officer's voice called out.

Small clay balls with lit fuses sailed above the ranks, falling in the
throng of fae. The sharpers exploded a moment later, shredding flesh and
bone. With a resounding cry the shield wall pushed forward and the army
of Summer folded under the pressure.

``Fire,'' the same voice called out.

Four dozen balls of flame flew above the fae ranks. They wouldn't hit
anyone, but they weren't meant to. One by one they detonated, the
pressure flattening the fairies under them even if they didn't kill
anyone. The fae lines wavered and again the cry sounded, the shield wall
pushing forward. I'd been killing my way through anything foolish enough
to stand in my way, the tip of the spear, and finally I saw only one
woman in front of me -- behind her was an empty courtyard, leading
deeper into the fortress. There was fear in her too-large eyes. Her
sword parried my blow, but her grips was weak. With a grunt I pushed
down, flexing my muscles as she joined a second hand to her first and
desperately tried to hold me back. Too weak. I broke through her guard,
carving her from shoulder to rib across the body. After so many strikes
against armour even the goblin steel of my sword was starting to dull,
but with enough power behind the blow that mattered little. I stepped
onto the courtyard lightly the sound of fangs tearing through flesh
heralding Adjutant following me as he tossed a corpse with a ripped
throat to the side. Heavies filled the corridor we'd open, splitting the
fae in two, and it was the beginning of the end for them. They began to
break.

``We can leave them to Nauk,'' I said. ``We have a Count to settle
matters with.''

The orc nodded, licking reddened chops. The inside of the castle was
still made of the same white stone, but in the shady corners I saw roots
peeking through. Count of Olden Oak, huh. Might be more to the title
than just heraldry. A set of stairs led to the upper keep and without
wasting any more time I began the way up. We passed through an empty
banquet hall without slowing, my gaze lingering at the larger and larger
amount of roots I saw growing through the stone from every corner. Was
this entire fortress a tree, the oak the fae noble was named for? I knew
fuck all about what oaks actually looked like, having been raised in a
city, so I could be looking at one for all I knew. There was another set
of stairs in the back of the hall and we headed there, the both of us
feeling the pressure coming from higher in that direction. We ended up
in a corridor covered with living mosaics of leaves that shifted with
every glance but didn't stick around to look at them: through an arc we
could see a third and final set of stairs, leading to what I would have
called a basilica if the the coloured glass of its windows didn't
display the glory of Summer victorious.

The way up was long and sharply sloped, the stairs broad and too large
to be covered in one stride. The sun shone down, but it was not
illuminating stone: we were surrounded by the brown bark of an immense
oak, growing in the centre of the towers we'd glimpsed from the outside.
The large structure ahead had coppers doors like the outer fortress,
though these were wide open. The atmosphere was eerily green-tinged.

``Twenty denarii he's waiting for us inside on some kind of oaken
throne,'' I said.

``I'm not taking that,'' Hakram snorted. ``Twenty denarii we get a
monologue about the might of Summer before the fight.''

We kept moving even as we talked but the moment we rose onto the first
step the strange buzz of fae wings sounded in the utter silence. From
the heights of the giant tree ten fae descended on translucent wings,
landing halfway up the steps with unnatural grace. Each of them held a
leaf-shaped shield and a long lance of wood. I raised an eyebrow.

``So if he'd been called the Count of Plentiful Cows, would you be
fighting with udders and hooves?'' I called out.

The words echoed across the distance, my mockery repeating twice more
before fading.

``Though crowd,'' Adjutant deadpanned.

The ten fae spread in a line without replying, wings flickering out of
existence, and the spears rose. Since the grim-faced pricks weren't
willing to save us the climb before we fought it out, we began the way
up. I caught Hakram studying them carefully as we rose then punched his
shoulder to draw his attention, eyebrow raised.

``Go to the Count,'' he gravelled. ``I'll handle them.''

``You've used one aspect already,'' I frowned. ``And your other one's
not much use in a fight.''

The tall orc bared his fangs.

``I feel\ldots{} close,'' he said. ``To the third.''

Ah, and now I understood why he'd suggested it. Iron sharpens iron,
Praesi were fond of saying. They meant it as a justification for their
obsession with scheming against one another, but I'd found the saying
had some truth in it. For both villains and heroes, conflict drove
advancement. No, perhaps that wasn't exact. Weighty actions allowed you
to sharpen your Name, and conflict had a way of birthing those. Whether
it was arguing with an enemy or beating them down, a Named could temper
themselves. It wasn't that Hakram thought he'd stomp over all these fae
-- they were obviously meant to be an elite guard of some kind, no
matter how ridiculous their equipment. But he believed that a dangerous
enough fight might allow him to reach his third aspect.

``I don't like risking you,'' I said, more honestly than I'd meant it
to. ``Duel's one thing, this is just taking a risk to hurry something
you'll get eventually.''

He half-smiled, which given the size of his teeth still made him look
more horrifying than sentimental.

``You can't be the only one taking risks,'' he chided. ``And we'll need
all we can bring to bear, soon. If not for this war then for the next.''

I was still less than fond of this idea. It wasn't just that finding a
replacement for Adjutant would be impossible, though there was no
denying that was a fact. Even if Apprentice fused Ratface and Aisha into
a single abomination of nature the combined talents wouldn't be able to
handle a tenth of the work he did. Hakram was my friend. Gods, probably
the person I was closest to in all of Creation. My first instinct was to
kill anything that might threaten him and put the head on a spike to
ward off anybody else who might want to try. I knew that look in his
eyes, though. It was the same one he got before disappearing for a few
bells and a problem mysteriously solved itself -- there would be no
talking him out of this no matter how much I glared.

``Wade in their blood, Hakram,'' I finally said, raising a gauntleted
fist.

``Luck in battle, Catherine,'' he replied, hitting his fist with mine.

We were only two steps away from the fae, and they'd yet to move. I
supposed they thought it made them look imposing.

``The way is barred,'' a fae said.

``So was the front gate,'' I replied.

I dashed forward, sending a sliver of power into my legs. Bypassing a
step entirely I landed in front of the rightmost fae, whose spear
immediately whistled towards my throat. From the corner of my eye I saw
movement -- ridiculous as they looked, they were quicker than the
soldiers from earlier and better coordinated. If it had come to a scrap
that would have mattered, but unfortunately for them fleeing was another
game entirely. I formed a circular panel of shadow in the way of the one
trying to flank me and ducked under the spear of the other, never
breaking stride. Wouldn't have worked if I was any taller, but for once
being so offensively short was an advantage. The shadow pane shattered a
heartbeat later, but I was already on the step behind them. I glanced
back and saw that none of them was deigning to pursue. Hakram ripped the
shield out of the hands of one and smacked another fae's face with it,
but he was surrounded within moments and the situation looked sharply to
his disadvantage. My fingers tightened until the gauntlet creaked, but I
forced myself to look away and continued my way up. He wouldn't have
told me he could handle it if he couldn't.

I forced myself to clear my mind the way I'd been taught even as I
headed up to the structure that was the crowning glory of the fortress,
the very heart of the Count's domain. From the sides of the stairway --
there were no rails here either, though unlike with the Tower I was
willing to cut Summer some slack since at least they could fly back up
if they fell -- I could see roots leading up to the inside of the
building. Well, that was promising. I'd seen my fair share of fucking
horrors in Winter, I supposed I was due exposure to the other side of
the coin. The copper gates were open, like I'd seen earlier, but as I
made it to the top I finally got a glance inside. For the first time
since breaching the fortress, what I saw gave me pause. It wasn't the
tall silhouette of the Count that gave me pause, his back turned to me
as he gazed out the green and red glass in front of him. It was the
sight of the inside of the basilica, though the living wood that made
hundreds of stacks filled with books and baubles was a stunning sight.
No, it was the hundred corpses of the Gallowborne that hung from the
branches covering the ceiling.

I let out a long, quiet breath. Fury was not unknown to me. I'd felt
both boiling anger and frozen, bitter hatred since I'd become the
Squire. But the sight of men and women who'd died for me trussed up like
trophies in someone's sanctum killed the emotions in me. I'd seen the
Carrion Lord once. The monster the tales spoke of, instead of the
sardonic teacher I'd come to love. Seen the humanity in him smothered
like a candle, leaving behind only a thing capable of anything if it
furthered its objectives. If someone was looking at my face right now, I
thought, they might just see the same thing. He'd told me, once that
were the same in some ways. Maybe he was right, because right now I felt
capable of being monstrous. My footsteps broke the silence in the room
as I walked forward, the heartbeats of the Beast echoing in turn. It was
there, I knew as well as I knew my own breath. Still as the grave, but
looking at the Count with my eyes. It did not delight in the violence to
come, for once. It \emph{bowed} to it.

``I'd never considered any of this personal,'' I heard myself say, my
tone without a speck of feeling. ``I am, after all, invading your home.
You've not participated in the invasion of Callow, and my only reasons
for sieging this keep were of a strategic nature.''

The Count of Olden Oak turned to face me, tall wooden spear in hand.

``But this?'' I murmured, looking at the corpses of people I'd known,
trained with, laughed with. ``This was a choice. Those have
consequences.''

``Duchess of Moonless Night,'' the fae greeted me calmly. ``You seem
displeased.''

``We passed civil the moment you hung up those corpses,'' I said. ``I
could torture you for this, I suppose, but that's a cheap sort of
satisfaction. Meaningless, really. There's no evening this particular
scale.''

``Winter pretending to be righteous,'' the man mocked. ``A farce of
farces.''

``I revoke your right to exist,'' I said, tone measured. ``I will take
what I want from you, and then you will end.''

He opened his mouth to speak again but I shot forward. The man wore no
armour, only green robes, but with fae that meant nothing. My sword came
down but the shaft of the spear caught it -- whatever sorcery was in the
wood made it harder than steel, my blade bouncing off. I was past
caring. I smashed my shield into his shoulder, but his hand came up to
block it: green light shone on his palm and the momentum of the strike
vanished. I gave ground, stepping back and slowly circling around him.
Swift as a hawk he struck, spear aiming for my eyes, but I hit the tip
of his spear with the top of my shield to knock it off course. The spear
rose past my head but instantly a branch grew from it, whistling towards
my throat. I blinked in surprise as it pierced straight through, only
backing away in time to prevent it from severing my spine. My vocal
chords were done for, but I no longer needed to speak an aspect to call
on it. \textbf{Rise}, I thought. The wound slowly began to close even as
the branch that had grown from the spear withdrew back into it. So this
was a Count of Summer, I thought. I had no makeshift prophecy protecting
me from this one, no shield of lies to blunt his power.

He would lose regardless.

I moved forward again and the spear whipped out, tearing a hole through
my shield -- a last moment adjustment prevented it from piercing through
the hand that held it. He made to withdraw the spear but I focused my
will and the ice welled from the steel and froze it stuck inside. I
managed to swing at his face before he forced it out anyway, twisting
away from by blow -- I cut clean just underneath his eye. Green light
came out instead of blood, bark growing to fill the wound. I was not the
only one with a healing ability, it seemed. The hole in my shield froze
shut with dark ice and I went back on the offensive: his growing trick
was too dangerous to allow him the initiative. The tip of my blade
probed his guard as I angled my feet for a thrust, his eyes flickering
down to notice it. The Beast howled. When he slapped aside the thrust
with his spear I was already moving, twisting the momentum into a pivot
that smashed into his spear when he managed to block it again. I tore
through no flesh, but the strength behind the strike threw him back a
few feet. I was stronger than him, then. My title of Duchess was not
entirely meaningless.

The spear snaked forward as he moved towards me, casually slapped aside.
Even as it passed my flank I saw the branch grow and head for my
kidneys, but I was ready for it this time. I dropped my sword and caught
the bursting wood with my hand, forcefully moving it aside. Ice
glistened on the lower edge of my shield, sharpening it like a blade,
and I rammed that edge into his shoulder. I cut through the robe and he
hissed in pain, then wrenched out the shield while throwing myself to
the side before the two branches growing from the first one he'd made
could punch through between my ribs. I landed in a roll, without a
weapon, and the Count smirked. Green light shone the gaping wound going
from his shoulder to his pectorals, bark filling it instantly. I flicked
my wrist and Pickler's contraption triggered, a knife slapping down onto
my palm. My Senior Sapper had made sure that there would always be steel
in my hand when I needed it, her sharp little mind ever-refining the
tool I'd once used when fighting the Lone Swordsman.

``You seem to be at a disadvantage, Duchess,'' the fae mocked.

I had no interest in trading barbs with meat. I charged again but found
the distance between us had been too lengthy: the Count flicked his
fingers at me, a dozen strands of green light shooting towards my chest
as I advanced. I stepped aside, adjusted my angle and continued moving
forward but he still had control of the sorcery: the strands struck down
at my boot, roots growing from them and nailing me to the floor. My
momentum cut short, I had to force myself back in order to avoid
tripping. Immediately the fae struck, moving to the side my shield
didn't cover with the grace of a cat. My knife wouldn't be able to do
much against the spear, at this distance. \emph{You have made a
mistake}, I thought with vindictive satisfaction. I adjusted my grip on
the knife to be the same I'd use for a sword, and then with a flicker of
will from the short blade a full sword length of dark ice grew. I cut
through the spear, and thought it immediately began to grow back his
eyes widened.

I tore through my boot out of the roots effortlessly. I'd already proved
I beat him in raw strength -- arrogant of him to think he could bridge
the gap with sorcery. My shield hit his stomach, knocking the breath out
of him without his little healing being of any use. My blade carved
straight through the wrist that held the spear, and though it grew back
in bark that didn't bring back the weapon to his hand. Sorcery attempted
to do so, but when it began rising from the ground I exerted my will
again and froze it stuck. I cut his throat, without missing a beat.
Green light filled the wound, but I was already striking again. I sliced
through his eyes and he screamed, but a heavy groan sounded out behind
me. I risked a glance and saw that a hundred spears of wood were
descending from the branches covering the ceiling. In that heartbeat,
the world slowed. I could move out of the way, give ground again and
avoid the danger. But I didn't want to. I wanted to crush him under my
boot, and the bone-deep hatred I'd felt when first entering Summer well
up in response.

I didn't set it aside, this time. I took it, owned it, carved it into a
weapon. It was mine, and it would answer to my will like any other
aspect.

``\textbf{Fall},'' I said.

The world went dark. A boundless night sky spread above us, without a
single speck of light to break the black. There was a cold here that was
old and merciless, and the branches that would have pierced me slowed
and turned grey. The sap inside them froze and they \emph{died}. The
Count of Olden Oak's bark-crafted eyes stared blindly into the dark as
he panicked. I could feel a flame inside him, feel it dimming with every
passing heartbeat. Frost spread across his body slowly, and I could feel
him on the brink of death. I smiled and the night went away, wrenching
me back into the sunlit basilica. He was barely conscious now, so little
of him left a child could have beaten him to death. His power would grow
back, though, given enough time.

``Oh, you don't get to die yet,'' I said. ``I still have a use for
you.''

What little was left of his mind smelled of fear, and it was not
unwarranted.