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\hypertarget{interlude-commanders}{%
\section{Interlude: Commanders}\label{interlude-commanders}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``When historians try to pin down Foundling's methods they point
to the Battle of the Camps or the Princes' Graveyard, but those came
later. After she'd learned her trade. If you want to understand how she
operated, look to the Battle of Four Armies and One -- from the
beginning to the end, she was playing an entirely different game from
every other commander on the field.''}

-- Extract from ``A Commentary on the Uncivil Wars'', by Juniper of the
Red Shields
\end{quote}

Nauk of the Waxing Moons was having an interesting day. He'd been woken
up before dawn when the watch officers had been forced to break up a
brawl between legionaries of the Fifteenth and the Twelfth: the enmity
between Afolabi and the Boss had trickled down, and no one who'd been
through Marchford and Liesse was inclined to leave any teeth in a mouth
that talked shit about Catherine Foundling. The poor fuckers were lucky
they'd not run into the Gallowborne when flapping their mouths: that
grim collection of paleskins drew steel over things like that and didn't
sheathe until the blade was red. The legate had been in a mood when he'd
stepped to the scene, but Hakram already had it in hand. The men from
the Twelfth were handed to their officers for discipline -- and with
Marshal Ranker looking over Afolabi's back no one was under the
illusions they'd get off lightly -- while his boys were dragged back
into their part of the camp. Fighting among legionaries when in hostile
territory drew sharper sanctions than just brawling: it would be a hard
flogging for them. When Deadhand had said their punishment would be
delayed until the return to Creation they'd smirked, but that had
disappeared real quick when Hakram had added that to even it out he'd
deliver the flogging himself.

Nauk fancied that the memory of his old friend stomping a fae noble by
swinging a horse one-handed would scare them into acting like proper
fucking legionaries for a few weeks at least.

``She made another enemy,'' the legate grunted as he watched the last of
them leave.

``He's Soninke old blood,'' Deadhand replied. ``Was never going to be a
friend. He's more useful as an example regardless.''

The good thing about Hakram was that he didn't believe in kissing ass.
Never had. If he said the Boss' decision to send a godsdamned general of
Praes out of the room to clean her pipe like a misbehaving child had
some sense to it, it meant he believed it. He wouldn't have been afraid
to disagree openly if he did -- not with only Nauk around to hear,
anyway. The legate spat to the side.

``If you say so,'' he said. ``The Wallerspawn weren't moved, by my
reckoning.''

The other orc's brow rose. Nauk scoffed.

``She speaks with a Laure accent, Hakram,'' he said. ``She's as much one
of them as I am.''

``She'll still smack you in the mouth if she hears you say that word,''
he replied. ``We have larger scores to settle than old grudges like that
one. They're our allies, at least for now.''

Easy for Deadhand to say. \emph{His} grandfather hadn't died taking a
run at the Wall. The old scrapper had been too deep in the Red Rage to
retreat when the Watch came out in force, and ended up with his head on
a spike for it. It might still be there for all he knew.

``Deoraithe, then,'' Nauk conceded in a grumble.

``Kegan's hard iron, I'll give you that,'' Hakram conceded in Kharsum.
``But she was watching, and she'll remember next time she feels like
pushing.''

``Politics,'' Nauk snorted. ``Glad you're the luckless bastard stuck
dealing with those.''

``Not that different from College alliances, when it gets down to it,''
Deadhand replied, turning to gaze out into the night. ``Everybody wants
something.''

The legate grunted, conveying his general fucking distaste for Wasteland
schemery.

``Grab what sleep you have left,'' Hakram finally said. ``Tomorrow's a
red day if there ever was one.''

Nauk of the Waxing Moons grinned, baring ivory chops to the night.

``Looking forward to it,'' he said.

They got to the place by midmorning, and even as the rest of the armies
dug in Nauk pawned off his duties to Commander Jwahir to study the
grounds at his leisure. The Taghreb woman was a better hand at
organizing, anyway. He'd picked her as his second for that very reason
when he'd lost his brother so fucking senselessly at Three Hills. The
same eerie road they'd used to get here continued to the north,
supposedly reaching Aine and the seat of the Summer Court eventually.
How long it would take to get there, no one had any idea. Apparently
time was subjective in Arcadia, which sounded like the kind of shit the
warlock's get babbled about after a few cups. Not close enough for
whatever was in there to reinforce the opposition in time, which was the
important part anyway. There was no sign of the enemy for now, and
they'd checked. The woods to the east were empty, and thick enough
besides you couldn't march in proper ranks through them. The hills to
the west couldn't be marched through from the other side, as far as the
goblins could tell, but that meant fuck all when the opposition had
wings. If Nauk was in a betting mood, he'd bet on Summer placing a nasty
surprise in there to flank them where the lines were engaged.

At least this would be a defensive engagement. The kind of fight most of
their host were best at. Wallerspawn liked to let the enemy come to them
and they were heavy on bowmen besides, while Marshal Ranker's gang of
cutthroats had the sharpest sappers in all the Legions. As for General
Afolabi's Twelfth, their cognomen was \emph{Holdfast}. They'd stopped a
Callowan force twice their size from making it to the Siege of
Summerholm, during the Conquest, by digging in and letting them die on
their palisades. After losing a full kabili at the onset of the Liesse
Rebellion and needing the Fifteenth to bail them out of the mess in
Summerholm, those boys and girls would be eager to wipe off the black
marks from their record. They'd fight with fire in their bellies no
matter what came calling. The absence of reliable information about what
\emph{that} would be had been a stone in the large orc's boot for this
entire expedition. Apparently there was going to be some kind of
princess, but what the Hells did that mean? The legate was more
interested in numbers and those were still anyone's guess. The almost
thirty thousand assembled here were nothing to fuck with lightly, and
Nauk would bet on them to handle up to twenty-five thousand Summer
screamers no matter what nobles backed them.

Thirty thousand would be dicey, though. More than that and it was going
to get bloody, and not in the way the legate enjoyed. The Fifteenth had
been outnumbered before, at Three Hills, and outclassed at Marchford.
But never both. Even the Boss would have a hard time pulling a win from
that mess if it came down to it. \emph{Speaking of}. Pretending he
couldn't see Jwahir looking for him with her report-face, Nauk legged it
as discreetly as an orc his size could. Catherine was sitting on one of
the decadent cushioned chairs they'd looted back at the fortress,
lounging like a lazy cat with that dragonbone pipe of hers. Nauk
occasionally wondered if she knew what even just this much dragonbone
was worth: you could buy a mansion in one of the better parts of Ater
for the gold it would earn at an auction. She blew out a stream of smoke
as he rested his elbows on the back of her chair, the wooden frame
groaning in protest.

``Nauk,'' she greeted him.

She spoke his name the way it would be spoken in Kharsum. It was always
eerie, when she used the tongue of his people. She had a flawless
heartlands accent without having ever stepped a foot there -- Name
fuckery struck him as the guilty party there. The legate could the side
of her face well, from this close. Sharp and high cheekbones that had
gotten even sharper since she'd gone into Arcadia to exact her share of
hide from Winter, tan skin had had gotten ever darker with all the
marching in the sun they'd been doing of late. Whether she was pretty by
human standards he had no idea -- she certainly had her fair share of
people panting after her, though she'd ever only given Kilian the doe
eyes. Nauk knew better than to ask how that had turned out. It hadn't
escaped anyone's attention that the two of them had been keeping
separate beds for months and that they rarely spoke directly to one
another anymore.

``Cat,'' he growled back.

``Shouldn't you be preparing your men?''

The tone was casual, but he knew to take it seriously anyway. The Boss
was nowhere as much of a hardass as Juniper, but she liked to run a tidy
crew. Even those who'd been with her since Rat Company were expected to
pull their weight.

``Jwahir has it in hand,'' he said. ``I'll look it over later. There a
reason you haven't made the portal?''

``I expect that they'll appear not long after I do,'' she replied,
amused for some reason beyond him. ``Better we dig in first.''

``Gonna be a rough one, this,'' Nauk grunted. ``Might take us more than
a bell and a half to retreat if we're under fire the whole time. And the
last ones to leave will be given a bitch of a fight.''

He'd been standing close to her long enough to start feeling the cold
now. Whatever she'd done in Winter it had changed her. Worse temper,
though she'd never exactly been a delicate flower, and nowadays wherever
she stood was always a mite frosty. Nauk didn't mind. It reminded him of
home, of the Steppes in spring just after the snows melted. From his
height he could see the corner of her mouth twitch. The blade-smile.
Someone always ended up bleeding out on the ground before too long
whenever she made it.

``Princess Sulia will be in command, on the other side,'' Cat said.
``She was described to me once as having a ``beautifully simplistic view
of things''.''

``Don't need to get fancy when you can torch everything all the time,''
Nauk said, admiration and disgruntlement warring for his tone.

``Dealing with someone like that is a lot like dealing with a hero,''
the Boss mused. ``She'll enter the field thinking she knows the story
ahead of her, because that's all she's ever known.''

``I'm guessing that's not a nice story, for us,'' Nauk said.

``It's a story about invaders taking a beating as they try to retreat,''
she said. ``Most likely capped with a last stand at the gate to cover
the last of us fleeing.''

``We taking the rearguard, then?'' the legate asked.

Would be a fight to remember, that was for sure. He wasn't fond of the
notion of sacrificing his jesha to cover other Legions and Wallers--
\emph{Deoraithe,} better he use that even in his mind, he wouldn't put
it above her to be able to smell shit like this -- but if that was what
was needed to win the war he'd grind his fangs and take the reaming.

``Oh Gods no,'' Catherine laughed quietly. ``Summer's going into this
with the perception that our strategy is all about limiting losses. I
didn't come here to flee limping, Nauk. I've come for \emph{blood}.''

Nauk felt his shoulders loosen and chuckled. Not because of the words,
though they'd been reassuring enough, but because of the tone.
\emph{Quiet}. Catherine Foundling was always at her most dangerous, when
she got quiet. Time to make that known across two worlds, he figured.

---

``The girl was right,'' Duchess Kegan said.

Adair shifted on his feet, watching the same sight she was. Countess
Foundling had opened her gate but a half-hour ago, not long after the
goblin had finished her preparations, and already the host of Summer was
arriving. They were coming from the north down the road, as had been
anticipated, but Kegan doubted that was the only direction they would
strike from. This Princess Sulia had proved competent enough to annex
most of southern Callow: she'd have more subtlety to her intent than a
mere battering ram.

``About the timing only. She was wrong about the numbers,'' Adair said
softly. ``My men say over fifty thousand.''

The ruler of Daoine closed her eyes, allowing herself the weakness only
because no one but her old friend was close enough to see it. More than
fifty thousand. They could barely afford to fight half that.

``Summer must have mobilized its full might to crush us,'' she finally
said. ``There cannot be anything but sentinels left in Creation.''

``The Fifteenth and the Knightsbane's command were on the move due south
when we crossed the gate,'' Adair noted. ``She might have meant for all
of us to serve as bait while they take back Dormer and Holden.''

``Neither force is large enough to hold the cities, if Summer attacks
afterwards,'' Kegan said, frowning.

``She is young,'' Adair shrugged. ``And yet to be defeated. That breeds
arrogance.''

``She is not a fool,'' the duchess murmured. ``Let us be careful to
avoid the mistake of taking her for one. It would be a costly misstep to
make.''

And oh, what delicate dance it had been to deal with that terrifying
child. Where the Carrion Lord had dug up this monster she did not know,
for surely the stories about her being an Laurean orphan were a
smokescreen for the truth. Obscure Imperial wards did not go on to win
the kind of battles Catherine Foundling had, not after \emph{two years}.
Twice heroes had died at the girl's hand, devils and demons scattered by
mortal men under her command, a resurrection forcefully snatched out of
the hands of a descending Hashmallim. These were the signs of a legend
in the making. If the Black Knight had ever been linked to one of the
People, Kegan would have believed Foundling to be a child of his own
blood raised in obscurity to avoid the knives of the High Lords. As this
was not the case, she must have been found young and trained away from
prying eyes to be unleashed as a weapon to suppress future Callowan
rebellions. The villain's foresight never ceased to chill her blood,
schemes decades in the making coming to fruit at precisely the right
time.

Still, it seemed his weapon had gone slightly astray. She was on her way
to becoming a power in her own right, and that meant she could be
negotiated with. Kegan had early understood the same truth that Ranker
-- that rotten old bitch -- clearly did: to prevent Foundling from
realizing the strength of her position, the stick had to be used with
only a rare carrot dangled. It was a careful balance to strike, given
what they were dealing with. The Duchess of Daoine still felt her blood
run cold when she remembered that slip of a girl glancing at a general
of Praes, casually mentioning she could Speak to him if she wished. The
implied threat had been lost on no one at that table. \emph{Cross me and
I will take away your free will, easy as snapping my fingers.} Gods,
barely eighteen and she could already use her Name to impose her will on
others. Not even the Carrion Lord had been this precocious and Kegan
knew the terror of the man better than most. Her own aunt had been left
an arrow-filled corpse in her own fortress when the Duni was still but a
Squire, swatted down like a fly in inside of the most heavily defended
fortresses on Calernia. Praes was not to be trifled with, not without
very good reason.

The gruesome mantle of the Calamities was being passed to fresh Named,
and though yet young these monsters would grow as dangerous as the old
ones.

Adair stirred again and it claimed Kegan's attention. She followed his
eyes and saw the host of the fae spreading across the plain, facing the
fortifications. Around sixty thousand she counted, revising upwards the
earlier assessment. There were knights on winged horses that the duchess
anticipated to be trouble even if they could not use sorcery, which
seemed unlikely.

``The hills,'' Adair murmured.

There was, Kegan saw, a single person there. In a hooded cloak, leaning
back against the slope as they sharpened a sword with a whetstone. At
this distance, not even the Watch could get much more from eyesight.
Whoever they were, they did not seem inclined to move from the
height\emph{. A chronicler?} Kegan wondered. It seemed odd for a scholar
to be armed, or be here at all. She was debating sending scouts to make
inquiries when movement emerged at the head of the army of Summer. Two
silhouettes, both mounted. One pale and dark-haired with a perfect
beard, wearing robes of woven flame and sunlight. A sword rested at his
hip, no other weapon visible. The other was taller and there was no
doubt about her identity: the Princess of High Noon was as the tales
told, hair like fire and terrible to behold. Swirls of heat marred the
air wherever she moved. The Princess Sulia was bearing a banner of
truce, and rode halfway between the two awaiting armies before slamming
the wooden shaft into the ground. Foundling's right hand found them not
long after, the imposingly tall orc with the necromantic abomination at
his wrist. He nodded politely, and etiquette dictated Kegan return the
same. She did so grudgingly.

``Lady Foundling invites you to join the party that will meet with
Summer,'' he said.

``Then I will do so,'' Kegan replied flatly. ``This is more than we
bargained for.''

``It always is,'' the Adjutant smiled, sinisterly baring teeth. ``You've
seen the person in the hills?''

``We have,'' Kegan replied.

``She instructs they're to be left alone,'' the orc said.

``Why?'' Kegan frowned.

``The exact words were ``if that's who I think it is, we \emph{really}
don't want to get in her way''.''

``Quaint,'' the duchess sneered, not allowing the uneasiness she felt to
show.

An ally of Foundling's? No, it couldn't be. All the Named that followed
her were accounted for. And if it was a Winter fae the army of Summer
would have moved to attack them. It could not be the Wild Hunt, since
this was not the seasons for it -- only in Spring and Autumn did these
entities come into being. Too many factors were unknown to her on this
battlefield and Kegan did not like it in the slightest. She joined the
rest of the \emph{diplomats} regardless. The Countess herself and Ranker
were all of it: since the other side had not cluttered the grounds,
there was no need for them to do so. The goblin's face was a mask, but
the girl herself seemed remarkably at ease. Like they weren't walking to
treat with demigods in the fullness of their power. \emph{Monster},
Kegan thought. Only a monster would be half-smiling as they approached
the fae.

``Princess Sulia, I presume?'' Foundling said.

``Duchess of Moonless Nights,'' the creature replied.

It hurt to look at her for too long, Kegan found. Like staring into the
sun.

``Word \emph{does} spread fast,'' Foundling drawled, tone amused.
``Who's the man with the sharp beard?''

``I am the Prince of Deep Drought,'' the fae said, and though his face
was beautiful the hatred turned it ugly. ``We finally meet, pawn of
Winter.''

The girl clucked her tongue.

``I'm at least a rook, really,'' she said. ``There's no need to be
insulting.''

Was she really unaware that every time she spoke the fae shivered with
the urge to kill her? Kegan wondered with dismay. Why had she even come
to treat if she was only going to taunt them?

``You wanted to talk,'' Ranker interrupted.

It was adding insult to injury for Kegan to ever have to feel
\emph{thankful} towards the likes of that withered old prune.

``Surrender,'' Princess Sulia ordered, and there was a weight to the
tone that almost made Kegan want to kneel. ``All of you may still swear
yourselves to Summer. Only the broken thing wearing Winter's seal needs
to die today.''

``It's always refreshing to meet someone who's worse at diplomacy than I
am,'' Foundling noted, seemingly impressed.

The Duchess of Daoine gritted her teeth. Was the girl still pretending
she'd not carefully used Kegan's enmity with Ranker to get her way more
often than not, baiting them to argument only to come in as a
``mediator'' at the last moment? Not even the Carrion Lord was this smug
a manipulator -- the Knight had the decency not to pretend he was doing
anything but taking what he wanted from you. The Princess of High Noon
ignored the Named, instead turning her eyes to the sole goblin.

``You need not die pointlessly, mortal,'' she said. ``The laws of Summer
will shield you after you swear allegiance.''

The goblin's burned hand clutched tight until her sharp nails drew blood
on her own palm. She met the fae's eyes with a grin full of fine fangs.

``I am a Marshal of the Legions of Terror, you pretentious tart,'' she
said. ``I live by only one law: \emph{one sin, one grace}. You want my
surrender? Come and take it.''

The fae's eyes turned to Kegan, and she'd steeled herself. She felt what
Ranker must have, the crushing weight on her shoulders that wasn't even
an exertion of power -- the Princess of High Noon did this just by
sparing a mortal a sliver of her attention.

``I am a Duchess of Daoine,'' Kegan replied coldly. ``I answer to
neither god nor men, much less the likes of \emph{you}.''

``Quarter will not be offered twice,'' the Prince of Deep Drought said,
tone sad. ``It is not yet too late.''

``Speaking of that,'' Foundling said, popping her neck with a gruesome
cracking sound. ``If you want to avoid me beating you like a rented mule
it's not too late to make peace. I'll need hostages and reparations, of
course, but you can still get away with losing only a hand.''

\emph{We are going to die,} Kegan realized with crystal-clear clarity.
\emph{We are going to die because whatever the Carrion Lord did to teach
this child broke her mind.}

``Did you think we wouldn't notice the Prince of Nightfall's stench
wafting from the woods?'' the Prince of Deep Drought mocked. ``He only
had time to bring a third of Winter with him. You are outnumbered
still.''

The duchess glanced east, where there was still no sign of anything in
the woods. Had the fae been tricked, or had the scouts? There was a game
at play here and she knew neither the rules nor the players.

``I'm trying to be merciful here,'' Foundling said, and the lie was so
insultingly blatant Kegan almost cringed. ``Are you really going to spit
on my goodwill?''

The Princess of High Noon did and the ground where she'd spat caught
fire.

``Ah well, I tried,'' Foundling grinned, and it was an unpleasant thing
to watch. ``See you soon.''

---

The fae held to the terms of the truce, the enemy army not beginning to
move before the three of them had returned to the fold. A part of Ranker
was sharply curious about whether they were respecting truce terms as
they were held in Calernia or whether the concept of truce as known to
Calernia had initially come from Arcadia, which was widely held to have
existed before Creation itself. A matter for another time. She'd slip
the question in her correspondence with Tikoloshe, the staggeringly
ancient incubus might have an inkling. The Marshal had planned the
defences of the allied armies without the knowledge of there being
reinforcements from Winter inbound, if there truly \emph{were}
reinforcements inbound. She'd had eyes on Foundling's little raider ever
since he'd first come to Denier, and though her scouts had lost track of
him after the fortress her people had noticed the large amount of mages
who'd disappeared with him. Was that the Squire's plan? Using the Count
of Olden Oak and some unknown ritual to pretend Winter had sent troops,
faking the presence of some powerful Winter fae. Wekesa's son took
orders from her, so he might have coughed out a few secrets before she
set out on her journey north. That would be deep cunning and deep
planning, however, and she'd not struck Ranker as that kind of villain
so far.

If false, it was the kind of bluff that could easily be called. It might
gain them some time, but not much and not enough to affect the outcome.
The evacuation had already begun, with the supply -- and loot -- carts
leaving first. The former Matron saw the logic in it. They'd have to be
taken across eventually, and this kept as much military strength on the
field as possible for as long as possible. The Deoraithe regulars were
slated to go through next, with the rest of the order to be determined
as the battle unfolded. Ranker had been watching the Squire's movements
carefully since it had come out she had some scheme in play, but gotten
little information for it. After the gate out was opened Foundling had
some of her few remaining mages scry across, and established contact for
a few moments before breaking off. Her own mages had been listening in,
and no words or images had gone through. Ranker,
she-who-has-the-bearing-of-one-of-high-rank in the stonetongue and
one-meant-to-stand-above-others-mercilessly in matrontongue, had been
through more red days than any other goblin alive. She'd been warring in
the Eyries when the Calamities were still in their cradles, she'd killed
her way through the civil war and the Conquest and a dozen minor actions
besides.

For the first time in many years, though, she felt like she was walking
in deepest dark. The Squire was mad, this was obvious. All Named were,
the successful ones merely managed to make that madness methodical the
way Amadeus and the Empress had. And even with those two, one could
could glimpse the cliff edge and the sharp drop that followed. Sadly,
that meant Ranker genuinely could not tell whether Foundling has been
taunting the fae royalty because she was confident in victory or because
she was too far gone to be able to conceptualize her own defeat. Even if
this Prince of Deep Draught -- and Gobbler take them all, weren't these
titles even more pretentious than the ones Wastelanders jerked each
other off with? -- was correct and there were Winter fae in the woods,
unless there were a great many more hiding than the twenty thousand
implied this was still not a winning hand for the allied armies. The
only visible unknown factor was that madwoman in the hills, and Ranker
had needed no instructions from the Squire to steer clear of that.
Putting aside that nothing good had ever come of an army picking a fight
with a single mysterious stranger, Ranker had seen that ugly hooded
cloak before.

There were some kinds of crazy not even goblins were willing to touch,
and that one definitely qualified.

The Marshal's general staff gathered around her as the fae began their
march, questions painted on their faces. Aabir, her Staff Tribune, took
one look at her and grimaced. He'd known her for a long time, long
enough to read the truth off her if she wasn't trying to lie.

``She still hasn't told us the plan,'' he said. ``This is madness,
ma'am. How can we be expected to fight when we don't know all the forces
at work?''

``It makes sense, in a way,'' Kachera Tribune Saddler said more
cautiously. ``We do not know how well fae can scry in their own realm.
We cannot leak a plan we are not aware of.''

Ranker raised her black hand and was granted immediate silence.

``As as I see it, there are two options here,'' she said. ``One, Black's
Name rotted his mind and he went the way of the Old Tyrant, appointing a
raging imbecile as his successor. If that's the case, even if we're not
dead today we'll be in a few years. There's other wars around the
corner.''

Procer, she did not need to say. They all had the rank to be in the
know.

``And two?'' Saddled asked, eyes blinking sleepily.

He \emph{was} getting old, wasn't he? And to think he was merely forty.

``Two, the Squire is the kind of brilliant that walks hand in hand with
crazy and stupid,'' Ranker said. ``I'm choosing to put my faith in
Black. Make your own choices, but whatever they are get ready for a hard
ride. The fae mean business -- expect to have two sorcerers on par with
the Wizard of the West pounding us.''

Dangling a bit of hope, appealing on the worship of Amadeus that had
become as much a part of the Legions as the singing and the drills and
then an immediate threat to prepare for. It should be enough to keep
their minds on the battle. Ranker wished she could be so easily
distracted, but she was too old to fool herself. She climbed onto the
platform she'd had raised to get a decent view of the battle, her bones
protesting the indignity before she settled on a cushion. At her sides
messengers, mages able to scry and signal officers stood ready for
orders. Afolabi would have a similar set up on his side of the
fortifications, and he was enough of a professional his grudge against
Foundling would be put aside for the battle. \emph{You poor fool}, she
thought. \emph{You should be more worried about her grudge against you.
The girl's Callowan, they gnaw on those like bones.} She dismissed the
thought and turned her eyes to the battle, to Summer on the march.
Ranker had prepared the plain for a hard battle, and today she would get
to see how fae died.

The allied camp consisted of two ringed wooden palisades, with the gate
in the centre. There was an avenue with smaller movable barricades going
straight through, punctuated with two sets of rough but solid wooden
gates. Ahead of the first palisade she'd had her sappers dig a trench
ten feet deep with spikes at the bottom, which had unfortunately limited
how much work she'd been able to order on the plain. There were
weight-triggered demolition charges buried according to the Third Delay
Pattern she had herself designed during the civil war, but she didn't
expect to see much death from those. The lily field was what would blood
them, closer to the trench. An array of pits three feet deep with a
sharpened stake at the bottom, hidden under branches and dead grass. The
prince and princess had retreated into their ranks for the offensive,
warier than the Marshal would have thought. The chit in the south must
have bled them at some point for them to be this careful. Might yet work
out to her advantage, Ranker decided. The first line was the same
infantry they'd seen earlier in their expedition through Summer, and it
kept advancing until across seven points in that line demolition charges
blew.

The spray of blood and flesh had long ceased being exciting and turned
into cold mathematics, coin put into tools that killed men but could
have been spent otherwise. The assessments in her unspoken records
shifted with every battle. Though the damages had been minimal, the
enemy could only guess at the concentration of charges and it stopped
them from advancing. Right out of the farthest bow range they'd shown at
the fortress, as she had meant them to. The wings of the three first
ranks of the fae lit up and Ranker glanced away, their trajectory
already happening in her mind. The winged cavalry in the back wasn't
moving, as she'd guessed it would not. The Watch was being kept in
reserve to deal with them, but it seemed that her assessment that the
knights would only strike after the fight was engaged was correct. Ahead
of her agonized cries sounded, so Ranker deigned return her attention
closer to camp. Two for two, it seemed. The Princess of High Noon had
only figured that there would be demolition charges ahead of the trench,
and so sent a first wave to clear them and gain a foothold. Instead
they'd gone straight into the lily field and were bleeding out like
stuck pigs with the sappers on the outer wall tossed sharpers to clear
out those who'd landed on solid ground.

Now the fight began, as the second wave that had taken flight moments
after the first landed in the shreds of meat and bone that were their
comrades. The lily patches had been revealed, so they managed an actual
landing this time. If Princess Sulia had meant for them to then attack
the walls Ranker would have called her a fool, since they could have
directly assaulted the walls. But that wasn't the intent at all, was it?
The third wave, right behind the second, was the one to assault. The
second was bringing up bows, finally in range to use those devastating
fire arrows that had harassed the allied camps on the march here. The
Legions fired their crossbows straight into the bowmen in good order,
while the Deoraithe standing between the first and second wall sent a
volley into the sky at the fae headed for the wall. A costly trade off,
Ranker saw. Legion crossbowmen took their toll but the enemy fired back
and fires bloomed across the palisade, hurriedly put off with sand and
dirt. There were damned holes in the outer wall, and when the enemy
infantry came marching in they would have breaches ready for them. As
for the bloody useless Deoraithe, they barely killed a hundred. Shooting
fae in the sky was like trying to shoot a fish in the ocean.

The melee at the outer palisade began in earnest, but Ranker wasn't
worried about that. The legionaries would hold steady against numbers
that low. The other waves in flight were more worrying, one to back the
bowmen and the other the vanguard. But most worrying of all was the
dozen fae that rode out of the ranks in a scattered line and raised
their hands. A rolling wave of flame swept across the plain and the
Marshal's dead hand twitched. One after another, her charges blew from
the sorcerous heat. A field full of potholes but clear of dangers ahead
of them, the fae infantry resumed their advance. The Marshal felt a
grudging sliver of respect for the Princess that was her opponent. She'd
been willing to send a few thousand into the grinder just to keep the
enemy busy while she prepared a clear way forward for the rest. That was
the kind of decisiveness that won battles. Not, however, if she could
help it. Ranker gestured for one of her mages to come closer.

``All mage lines,'' she said. ``Wave fireballs to knock the fae out of
the sky before they land on the outer palisade. Steady, constant.''

The order went across smoothly and the broad balls of flame that bloomed
got the situation under control. Trying to kill Summer fae with fire was
like trying to drown a salmon, but the impact was enough knock them
down. Those that try to fly above instead ate arrows as the Deoraithe
finally began pulling their weight. Outer palisade was in hand, for now,
but the fae army was hungrily devouring the distance as it charged
forward. That was, Ranker saw, when Winter struck. The darker half of
the Fair Folk did not come announced. It moved in silence, a tidal wave
of warriors adorned with dead wood and black stone that struck the
eastern Summer flank like a snake. At their head a one-eyed man rode a
horse of shadows, the spear in his hand glinting of murder. They were
impressive to watch, but the Marshal did not care how fucking impressive
they were. She watched for numbers, and found only the twenty thousand
the Prince of Deep Drought had sneered at. The same numbers pulled off
the flank of Summer in good order, slowing the assault some but not by
enough. If these were all the cards Foundling had to play, the battle
was a loss slowly crawling to them.

The wave of infantry hit the outer palisade and the legionaries buckled.
Deoraithe reinforced them, but there was only so much room and the fae
\emph{kept coming}. Ranker could see the rest of the battle play out in
her mind. They'd hold, at least until Winter began to break. Then the
pressure would strengthen and they'd lose the outer palisade. And then
inch by inch they would die, painting the ground of Arcadia red. Summer
would lose half its army, she thought. But it would win, and only wisps
of the army that had come into Arcadia would escape through the gate.

``Marshal,'' her Senior Mage's voice whispered urgently.

She'd not heard him coming to her side, deep in thought as she had been.

``I'm listening,'' she said.

``Lady Squire's mages scryed across the gate again,'' he said.

Ranker licked her teeth.

``Same as last time?'' she asked.

``Just a contact, then nothing,'' he agreed, then flinched and turned
west.

The madwoman was still sitting on her perch, the former Matron saw. No,
what had drawn her officer's attention was the gate that had just opened
in front of the hills.

``Kolo, what is that?'' she said.

``A gate, Marshal,'' the Senior Mage replied.

``I can \emph{see} that,'' the goblin snarled. ``Where is it from?''

``Creation,'' he whispered.

There was a sound then, that Ranker had not heard in twenty years. A
horn, but not the large horns the Legion used. The kind of blowing horn
that someone could carry in hand. Once, twice, thrice the call went out.
\emph{All knights charge}, it meant. That call had not shuddered across
a battlefield since the Fields of Streges, and the Marshal was not
ashamed to admit she felt the age-old shiver when the knights of Callow
charged through the gate, killing lances down as they whistled through
the air. The banner she did not recognize, a bell of bronze with a
jagged crack through it set on black. Three thousand of the finest
cavalry Calernia had ever seen ploughed into the western flank of Summer
and Ranker began laughing.

``Oh, you conniving bitch,'' she said breathlessly. ``You never intended
for us to evacuate, did you?''

Eyes bright, one of the only three Marshals of Praes rose to her feet.

``Orders,'' she said, facing her mages. ``My dears, do I have orders.''