webcrawl/APGTE/Book-3/out/Ch-092.md.tex

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\chapter{Verse}\label{chapter-62-verse}}



\epigraph{``One hundred and eighty-seven: should one of your trusted
companions be taken hostage at knife-point, check for the following
features -- cliff, moat, or any kind of sharp drop. Should one be
nearby, you may assume the situation will solve itself momentarily.''}{``Two Hundred Heroic Axioms'', author unknown}



Heavy footsteps and the scent of Hell, yet no ominous breathing. I got
to see the reason for the absence the moment our opponent came into
sight. The devil, for there was no denying it was that, stood a good
twenty feet tall. Broad as cart, if not more, it had a shape almost
human if humans could be of that size. It wore no clothes, its sculpted
body made of something neither stone nor metal but evoking both, and in
its hands it held a long mace that looked like a massive rib. Granite?
Hard to tell, in the dark. Still, it was the head that drew attention or
more precisely the lack thereof. Atop the devil's neck was only a
polished surface, like someone had ripped off the head of a marble
statue, and from the sides sprouted the ram horns I'd glimpsed earlier.
Well, there went my usual plan. Decapitation did the trick with most
everything, if you were thorough enough. For all that the devil lacked
eyes it had no trouble keeping track of us, and for something its size
it was damnably nimble. Also strong, I thought with a wince as the
rib-mace smashed against the ground with a deafening sound.

Yeah, I wasn't getting hit by that if I could help it. I no longer had
the Lone Swordsman's hero juice that would allow me to get back up
afterwards.

It should have been, I thought, a difficult scrap. But it wasn't,
because the two of us were moving seamlessly. It wasn't like with
Adjutant, who was a limb of my own, or the way it had when the Woe
had\ldots{} come together in Dormer. Black was just always in the right
place, like he had a supernatural sense telling him where that was. The
devil leaned forward to smash down the mace on me and my teacher was
right behind, edge of his sword flashing with shadow as he carved a scar
on the thing's back. It screamed mouthlessly and turned, swinging
wildly, but he was exactly half a step out of the arc. Its free hand
reach for Black, fingers creaking as they moved, but then I was free to
act and my blade went into the back of its knee. Not, sadly, deep enough
to push through. But enough it turned screaming again, and when it did
Black hacked halfway through its mace-wielding wrist. The devil went
wild and the both of us backed away smoothly, one behind it and one
before, neither of us out even slightly out of breath.

There was a game of shatranj being played here, with every step and
every swing, and the devil was losing it. Much as I would have liked to
say I was a player unto myself, I wasn't. I was just\ldots{} part of the
dance. Another moving part my teacher worked with as he orchestrated the
death of a creature that could easily have torn its way through a full
company of heavies without taking a wound. Sometimes I forgot that, for
all that I'd mostly seen Black scheme and lead men, his Name was that of
a killer of heroes. To be the Black Knight was to be the right hand of
the Dread Emperor, the slayer of the anointed champions of the Heavens.
There was no searing light or shouted righteousness, down here, but
there was death. Being painted on a canvas of flesh, one stroke at a
time. I enjoyed being part of that as much as I hated it. Following the
lead of a professional was\ldots{} soothing, and the victory being
arranged would be sweet. But it'd been some time since I'd had anyone
above me in the pecking order on the battlefield. The feel of it was
like fly that wouldn't quit buzzing around me.

When the devil emerged from the wild frenzy that had seize it, we
advanced again. It leapt back, over my head, but nimble or not it was
\emph{heavy}. A twist of will had a spear of frost ramming into its
side, doing little but breaking skin but slamming it against the side of
the corridor. Absence, that was what the boundary looked like, but
whatever it was it was not lightly shaken: the devil smashed against it
and fell scrabbling to its feet. Neither of us intended to give it the
breathing room. The rib-mace skidded against the ground, moving so
blindingly fast it was a blur, but I leaned into my instincts -- I felt
the breath of death under my feet, cloak rustling, but already I was
rolling forward and beneath its guard. There was a sound like stone
breaking and the devil half-collapsed forward. I stepped to the side of
the falling torso and hacked at its sides, for lack of better target,
frost touching the wounds I made and never leaving. I smelled a kill.

``Withdraw,'' Black said.

I moved without hesitation. The creature did not attack, and I got a
look at why: while I'd been distracting it in the front, my teacher had
slipped behind and deepened the wound in the back of the knee until the
entirely limb was cut off. The devil, struggling to keep us at bay with
its mace, roughly tried to force back its severed parts together. To my
distaste, I saw the unearthly material began to mend itself. Of course
Akua had some kind of self-healing abomination, which also shrugged off
my power in anything but strong concentration and who was fucking twenty
feet tall as a gatekeeper. Her ego probably didn't allow her to be any
random asshole, she had to be Queen Asshole, reigning queen of all the
assholes in the world.

``Now,'' Black said, when the stitch job was half-done.

The devil screamed again, and I was close enough to feel the sound
coming from its entire body. It was the thing itself screaming, and the
act that nothing to do with mouth or throat. I pressed forward without
flinching. I realized what my teacher's intent had been a moment before
it bore fruit. The devil attempted to rise to its feet to fight us but
the stitching was not yet complete: the moment it put weight on the
limb, the healing broke and it fell down again. Typical Black, I
thought. I might have been the kill the thing brawling up close, but it
in his eyes the uncertainty was not worth the risk. Instead we'd
withdrawn to create another occasion, one for a clean kill. It was the
fighting style of a man who'd spent his entire like killing heroes.
Knowing the dice would always favour the other side, he'd learned to
remove chance from the equation entirely. It was an alien way of killing
to me, who tended to double down when things got risky instead.
\emph{But there's a reason he's lived this long when heroes keep taking
a swing at his neck, and I'm looking at it.}

Frost swept up my sword and I drove the blade into the back of the devil
fallen at my feet. From the corner I could see Black cutting through the
back of its mace-wielding elbow, motions fluid and not a single one
wasted. The devil screamed but it was done. With a last attempt at
taking me in hand it tried to rally, but from where my blade had sunk
into its flesh ice was spreading inside. The hand never reached me, the
limb itself frozen ad I kept pouring Winter's power into its frame. From
the beginning to the end, the fight could not have lasted longer than a
quarter hour. Neither of us had taken a single hit, or been in any great
danger of dying. There'd be a grand total of two words spoken
throughout, no quips or taunts -- the absence had been heavy it would
have felt like whistling during a sermon to start. I spat to the side,
out of breath more for use of my mantle than because of physical
tiredness.

There'd been a lot of talk since I became the Squire about the
similarities between us, but this\ldots{} execution had just laid the
differences bare for all to see. We both used chaos, but the manner was
different. The dark-haired man would wait patiently, put himself in the
correct position, and then set fire to the field. He'd then ruthless
capitalized on those weaknesses, using chaos as just another tool in his
arsenal. Me, though? Chaos followed wherever I went, so I'd made it my
home grounds. Learned to drink and breathe that kind of mess, so that
when it hit the field I was the only one unhindered. It'd gotten me
through two messes in Arcadia, Marchford and Summerholm, but never
without a price. On the surface his was of doing things was flatly
superior and I still intended to learn from it, but I wasn't Black. I
didn't have that kind of calculation in me. And though Akua had been
full of shit when she'd called him a rat in a maze of traps, she'd
touched something true: my teacher's way only worked so long as he was
prepared. It was, in a word, \emph{fragile}.

I could learn from him without turning in a shoddier version of who he
was. I had to, or the fights ahead would cost me a lot more than Nauk.

``\emph{Mongowa-umun},'' Black said in Mtethwa. ``It was a greater
devil, though not a famous one. Likely an old Sahelian contract kept
secret for a rainy day.''

``She only had one of those left, according to my sources,'' I replied.
``I expected it to be deeper in the city, to be honest.''

``There will be worse,'' Black said, shaking his head. ``A host, yes,
but that will not be the thrust of her defence. The old breed has always
preferred sorcery to armies, in the end. Sorcery comes from a single
will, armies have to share victory.''

``Wards,'' I said. ``But we have a layout of those. Thief saw to that.''

``Two things must you face, when breaking a High Lord,'' Black murmured,
quoting from one of Terribilis II's treatises. ``Tall and ancient walls,
manned by wrath. Then the seat of power, where old devils lie.''

``This isn't a Wasteland city,'' I said. ``She didn't have ten centuries
to fill her vaults with every different shade of madness she could think
of.''

``It is a manner of thinking, Catherine,'' he replied. ``Her seat of
power, the Ducal Palace, will be where she has invested greatest
effort.''

``Frontal assault's not an option, then,'' I grimaced. ``Not that I'd
seriously considered, given the army in the city and whatnot.''

Pale eyes glanced at me and he nodded.

``Your little surprises,'' he said. ``Do you have way to contact them?''

``There's a mage along,'' I admitted. ``But it's not like either of us
can scry. Akua bailing out of Creation wasn't part of the plan.
Instructions were given before the operation began.''

``I am uncertain what that would result in, if currently carried out,''
Black said. ``There is a need to account for that liability.''

``You want me to find them?'' I said. ``I never liked the metaphor, but
needle and haystack. And in this case the needle is both murderous and
actively hiding.''

``Think, Catherine,'' he softly said, ``about the fight ahead of us. The
shape of it. In the process of that confrontation, can we afford to have
a sudden tipping point of unknown timing and effect?''

I grimaced. If this were just me, I'd say yes. I was confident that,
whatever came of it, I'd be better at dealing with it than Diabolist. I
didn't care about what actually happened as much as I did what I could
make \emph{from} that. But that wasn't the way Black worked, and
considering he was the mentor in this little jaunt of ours maybe
sticking to the safe side was the better notion. I was still wary that
he'd told me to leave Adjutant and Archer behind. There were a lot of
stories that could spring from the two of us hitting Diabolist's lair
alone, and few ended well for him.

``So I look for them,'' I said. ``In the trapped horror-city swarming
with undead and mages. Gods, you always take me to the worst places.''

``No,'' he said. ``I have\ldots{} a notion for their use. Make your way
to the Ducal Palace and prepare an approach. \emph{Quietly}.''

My fingers clenched. I studied his face and found it as inscrutable as
ever, pale and calm and seemingly in control.

``You know I'm not great at the courtesies, so you'll have to forgive if
I'm being too blunt,'' I said. ``Are you trying to get yourself
killed?''

He cocked his head to the side but did not reply. He didn't seem
offended, but then he didn't seem much of anything at all -- I was well
aware that the only reason I saw mild curiosity on his face was because
he was letting me.

``I went along with this because I thought you had a plan,'' I said.
``Something that doesn't end up with you taking a spell for me or dying
to free me from some trap. But I have to ask, Black, are you actually
\emph{trying} to die? Because us going off on our own before we pick a
fight with Diabolist reeks of you being there in chains when I enter her
throne room.''

My tone turned harsh.

``I don't care if you think you've reached the end of the rope,'' I bit
out. ``I'm not going to help you go out in a blaze of futility. Gods
Below, this is \emph{Akua}. She has a magic weapon and a fortress of
doom, but you've taught me since the moment I became a claimant that the
story she began only ends one way. This isn't just foolish, it's
actively detrimental to the Empire. I don't care if you're Named, we're
on the eve of war with the Principate -- now is not the time to start
sacrificing our best generals.''

I was panting by the end of it, fear and anger having bled out into my
voice. I hated how vulnerable I'd sounded, even if I'd scrupulously
avoided making this personal.

``If you are quite finished?'' Black calmly asked, and I grunted in
agreement. ``Good. You misunderstand me. I've no intention of dying
today, Catherine, though it is certainly possible regardless. You have
not seen my full hand, so to speak.''

``You know better than that,'' I said. ``Tricks going against the
current don't \emph{stick}. It makes it seem like you have a chance for
the moment, but then Creation fucks you anyway because it's a very large
machine and you're a very small grain of sand.''

``Of this,'' he replied, ``I am aware. And yet I would proceed.''

It was tempting to ask him what had him so sure he'd make it out, but
even if there'd been a guarantee Akua wasn't listening in -- which there
wasn't -- I didn't believe he would have told me. Black was more pile of
secrets than man, sometimes, and he did not share those without good
reason. My fear, even for him, did not qualify.

``This is what you'd say,'' I murmured, ``if you were trying to force a
succession on me.''

``Yes,'' he acknowledged serenely.

``And you know how to fool the Name tricks for lying,'' I said.

He'd been the one to teach them to me, after all.

``I do,'' he agreed.

``But you want me to believe you anyway,'' I finished.

He inclined his head, conceding the point.

``A leap of faith,'' the Black Knight said, and for some reason he
sounded amused.

I'd learned to recognize pivots, to feel the weight of their touch on my
life. I'd come a long way since first hearing the word, Juniper telling
me of it under the stars months after I'd made my first choice that
mattered. Not a Choice, no, not the way the Book of All Things spoke of
it, but perhaps something touching the facet of that greater concept. In
the collection of decisions and acts that made up a Name, the
\emph{stuff} of it, some mattered more than others. This? This was not
one. I breathed out and sharpened my mind but there was no fulcrum to be
found. No sense that scales could be shifted. Was it because he was
being truthful, that my wariness was unfounded? \emph{Or is it because
he has already made a choice of his own, and it has long been out of my
hands?} I could not keep a man who sought death from it, I knew. Much
less one as able as my teacher.

The part of me that was Catherine Foundling yet not, the girl I was and
had been but seen through the darkened ice that was Winter and my Name,
crept up my spine inexorably. It told me that if this was unacceptable,
I should force my will upon it. Brand his soul with a queen's decree,
that he would struggle for life whatever the costs. But that whispering
thing met pale green eyes, so calm and measured, and it faltered. It
would be fair, it insisted. Once, in Summerholm, he had robbed me of my
own will before swinging nooses. Though that debt had grown muddled by
the ways we had intertwined since, it would stand so long as it was not
repaid. I was Callowan, after all, even now. We were a people of long
grudges. I forced the set of ugly instincts down. Warlock had not been
wrong, to call me \emph{other}. I wondered if all the villains I'd
jeered at in the old stories, called fools for not thinking it through,
had started out like me. Bargain after bargain, one desperate compromise
after another until you hardly recognized the creature looking back at
you in the mirror. Damnation never felt like damnation until it was too
late, did it? I forced myself to be Catherine Foundling and no one else,
the coldness in my veins slowly receding.

``You told me once, that you thought of martyrdom as an act of
cowardice,'' I said. ``Symbolic vanity.''

``And I stand by those words,'' Black said.

I closed my eyes and breathed out.

``Don't you dare make me grieve you,'' I whispered.

The sentiment passed, and my eyes opened. I found his matching mine,
brown and green and neither giving ground.

``Into the breach we go, Black Knight,'' I said.

``Into the breach, Squire,'' he softly agreed.