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\epigraph{``So spoke His Dread Majesty in the wake of battle, even as the
High Lords praised him: `Speak not flattering untruths. Another such
victory and I will rule an empire of ghosts.'\,''}{Extract from `Commentaries on the Campaigns of Dread Emperor
Terribilis the Second'}



It began.

When Juniper had sent our skirmishers out, we'd been able to scrape
together four thousand including the Watch. Crossbowmen, human and
goblins, with one thousand deadly Deoraithe longbowmen at the back --
when the enemy began returning fire, these were the ones I wanted the
lightest casualties for. They were too useful and too few to waste on
opening exchanges. Malanza sent forward nine fucking thousand men, and
we were pretty sure that wasn't even all she could field. The opposition
apparently had much the same thought as we'd had, because the first wave
to come in longbow range wasn't principality troops: it was levies. I
sucked in a breath, eyes making them out perfectly regardless of
distance. Men too old and too young, with hunting bows instead of the
kind of weapons a battlefield required. Some even had slings, which
Juniper noted out loud some Arlesite principalities were known for. The
Watch nocked, drew and fired without a word. At least a hundred levies
died in the first mass volley as the Proceran skirmishers advanced,
closing range. Conscripted peasants taking arrows so that the personal
forces of princes would not. The sight of it had me gritting my teeth.

``It's sound tactics, no matter how much you glare,'' Juniper said.
``Gets the people who can properly return fire in range without
losses.''

``I know,'' I said, fingers clenching. ``I know it is.''

But how many kids and greybeards who'd just died had actually
\emph{wanted} to be on this field? I couldn't know for sure, but
Principate rulers had full right of conscription as their Gods-given
birth right. They didn't even to justify it, not like nobles had in the
Old Kingdom -- where only foreign invasion had granted that temporary
privilege to aristocrats. The sickening thing was that many of them
probably did want to be there. Because priests and princes had told them
this was a holy war instead of Hasenbach trying to kill two problems
with one stone or Amadis and his cronies making a play for the throne. I
wasn't so much a hypocrite as to damn them for it. I was well aware that
the main reason my own army fielded only enlisted was that I'd had
neither the funds nor equipment to raise and keep the amount of soldiers
a general conscription would have brought. My fingers remained clenched
anyway. Making decisions where part of my forces were openly deemed more
expendable than others hadn't grown any more pleasant with time, that
unspoken admission that some lives were worth more than others.

``More kids than I'd thought,'' my Marshal said after a moment, eyeing
the enemy through a scrying bowl. ``That's interesting. Either she's
sounding out whether we'll flinch at killing those, or they came closer
than we thought to scraping the bottom of the barrel.''

``Hasenbach's problem is a surplus of fantassins, not a lack,'' I said.

``These aren't fantassins, Catherine, they're levies,'' the Hellhound
said. ``Those boys we're putting holes in look like they should be
working fields and trades, not fighting in a war.''

I frowned.

``You think they're having manpower issues?'' I sceptically said. ``So
far, between the three armies, they're fielding about one hundred and
twenty thousand men. Their population can take that. We know that for a
fact, you've read the same reports I have.''

``On parchment, maybe,'' Juniper grunted. ``But looking at them now I
have to wonder. The civil war hurt the south pretty bad and they didn't
even have a full decade to recover. The north was spared, but it has to
keep soldiers on the walls to deal with the ratlings. We might need to
consider the possibility that Hasenbach didn't forge her Grand Alliance
just to keep her borders secure. That she might have needed the troops
as well, and that if she loses enough soldiers some parts of Procer will
collapse.''

My reflex was to disagree, but I forced myself to stop and think. There
was some sense in that. The First Prince's issue with fantassins was
that she had several armies' worth of them floating around without a war
to fight or skills to ply in peace time. I'd taken that as meaning she
had manpower to toss into the flames, but that was not necessarily be
true. It might not be a surplus of people so much as surplus of the
\emph{wrong} kind of people. If Juniper was right and killing levies
meant scything through the same men and women who should be keeping
Procer functioning\ldots{} Well, there was a chance that down the line
principalities would have bow out of the crusade because they literally
could not afford more losses. Which was a mixed blessing. Parts of the
Principate withdrawing would ease off the pressure on Callow, but it
might also lead to internal instability in Procer itself. Which, in some
ways, would be helpful. Procer, if eating at itself, wasn't mucking
around in my homeland. But it also gave Black and Malicia a much freer
hand, which was almost as dangerous. \emph{And if the instability takes
Hasenbach off the throne\ldots{}} Honestly, I wasn't fundamentally
opposed to that. The chances of the next First Prince or Princess being
as dangerous as Cordelia Hasenbach were fairly slim. On the other hand,
I knew Hasenbach. I'd made a study of her, we had a personal
relationship. Whoever replaced her would be an unknown and that carried
risks.

There were already too many of those in this war, and wind picking up a
third of the way through the tightrope was bad news all around.

While I'd been wrestling with the thoughts, the skirmish had turned
bloody. We had range and rate of fire on the enemy, but they outnumbered
my people by more than twice over. The first half hour was a one-sided
massacre. Between the Watch and the crank crossbows, we carved a red
swath through the levies. But then the professional soldiers of the the
enemy got in range to shoot back, and I stirred uneasily atop Zombie
when I saw wooden shafts begin raining down. Goblins were a smaller
target than humans and my men were spread out loosely according to
Legion doctrine, while the enemy remained in tight packs. That helped
some, keeping the exchange of lives at about parity even with the
lopsided numbers. The hard truth, though, was that Malazanza could
afford to trade her entire skirmishing contingent for mine and walk away
with a strategic victory.

``Juniper,'' I said.

``Another two volleys, Foundling,'' the Hellhound said.

``We're barely denting the principality troops,'' I sharply replied.

``Levies we kill now aren't covering the first wave against our
palisades,'' the Marshal of Callow replied. ``It's a worthwhile trade.''

Another two volleys, like she had said, and then the horns sounded the
retreat. The Watch, I saw, had not lost so much as a single man. When
the enemy had advanced, they'd retreated equally and kept killing all
the while without missing a beat. If Ratface's discreet following of
Deoraithe spending over the last year had not made it clear how
ridiculously expensive training and arming them was, I would have been
livid with envy. As it was, I was merely very jealous. The enemy
skirmishers had little stomach for pursuit. They'd killed and wounded
nearly a thousand of my crossbowmen, but at three times the cost -- and
most of those dead, not just bleeding. Juniper's order to withdraw was
coming just ahead of the point in the cold lay of arithmetic where the
skirmish would become costlier than it was useful.

``Marshal,'' one of her aides spoke up. ``Enemy cavalry is moving.''

My eyes flicked to the side. Malanza had been traditional in the
arraignment of her forces. Three thick waves of infantry in the centre,
with four thousand cavalry on each side and another four thousand in
reserve at the back with what looked like a few thousand principality
troops. A hard-hitting reserve that she could pour into whatever breach
her foot managed to make. The cavalry contingents on both sides were on
the move, though. Riding ahead of the crusader host, converging on my
skirmishers from the flanks. Only at a trot for now, but when they got
close enough they'd charge.

``Probe?'' I asked the Hellhound.

``If they don't hurry the fuck up, our soldiers are back well within
siege range before the horse gets anywhere close,'' Juniper said.
``That'd be\ldots{} costly, for her. They might be trying to bait out
the Broken Bells.''

``Talbot could hit one of the flanks hard and withdraw before her foot
gets there, or even the other cavalry wing,'' I noted. ``This seems
like\ldots{}''

Trumpets sounded from the other side, and after a few moments of milling
around the enemy skirmishers began to pursue.

``That's,'' I began, but closed my mouth.

What the Hells was Malanza up to? She had to know that if her archers
got in killing range of our trebuchets and ballistas it'd be a
godsdamned massacre. Even if her cavalry hit at the same time. We'd lose
crossbowmen, sure, but a heavy formation of advancing enemies would be a
sapper's wet dream. And she'd lose twice as many soldiers when her
people broke and fled, especially if the Broken Bells sallied to hit
them on the way out.

``Juniper?'' I tried.

The orc did not respond. She'd gone utterly still, eyes fixed on the
approaching enemy. She barely even breathed or blinked.

``Her infantry isn't moving,'' Juniper said.

``I can see that,'' I replied flatly.

The meat of Princess Malanza's infantry had yet to move, still standing
in the distance.

``Her infantry isn't moving,'' the Hellhound slowly said, ``because it
doesn't \emph{need} to.''

Which made no sense to me. Not with the forces the enemy had set in
motion. Cavalry and skirmishers, this close to our engines?

``Full retreat,'' Juniper barked at the closest horn blower. ``Break
formation.''

The officer blinked, then sounded the calls. I did not know the orc's
reasons yet, but I did know better than to gainsay her instincts when it
came to battle. The crossbowmen scattered and legged it as the Watch
ceased firing and put their supernatural swiftness to full work. What
was the play here? Already the Deoraithe were in siege range, and the
goblins among the crossbowmen weren't that far behind. The greenskins
could scuttle quick as spiders no matter the terrain. \emph{It's not
about the forces, then}, I decided. \emph{They still matter, but only as
part of a larger tactic.} Something was missing, and that thought was a
familiar one. Juniper and I both had it before, when wondering why
Rozala Malanza would try to take her army through a narrow passage my
men could hold the end of. And the conclusion, I remembered as my blood
ran cold, was that she'd had something up her sleeve we didn't know
about.

Three heartbeats later we learned.

From the beginning, we'd dismissed the notion that the crusaders would
use their priests the same way we did mages, for sorcerous artillery and
shock tactics. Brother and sisters of the House of Light were not
supposed to take the lives of others. We'd theorized there would be some
willing to break those vows, and that they would be a threat to deal
with. But aside from this, we'd believed the priests would be a purely
defensive and support asset. Our failure, Rozala Malanza taught us, had
been one of imagination. Ahead of the retreating Watch, panes of light
bloomed. At least forty feet tall, though thin. \emph{A fence}, I
realized. \emph{They are fencing them in.} Pane after pane formed,
boxing in our retreating skirmishers in the span of time it'd take me to
light a pipe. An opening was left, at the back. Where the enemy bowmen
paused and put their formation in order, as on both sides of them the
Proceran cavalry began to charge.

``Tell Pickler to fire at will,'' Juniper barked at the closest mage.

The message passed and the twenty heavy ballistas fired their stones.
The first volley hit the fence at a high angle, and the stones broke
without even visibly affecting it. The trebuchets threw their load in
the moment that followed, arcing high over the fence straight at the
enemy archers. They never reached the crusaders. More fences formed over
their heads. Some rocks shattered, others bounced off. The broken
remnants remained on the light, as if it were a physical thing. I
gestured for another mage to attend me.

``Get me Hierophant,'' I said.

The rectangular silver mirror in the man's hands shivered after he got
out his incantation, revealing Masego's face. He was currently with the
mage lines, and already I regretted not having him at my side.

``Hierophant,'' I said. ``You see the fences?''

``Miracle work,'' he said. ``Interesting use of priestly powers.''

``Shut them down,'' I said. ``\emph{Now}.''

He nodded, and after a shiver all the mirror showed was my own
reflection. My fingers clenched as I watched the first volley from the
Proceran bowmen hit my skirmishers, all on the left wing. \emph{They're
concentrating their volleys, I thought}. Annihilation tactics. They did
not intend to leave any survivors. My soldiers returned a ragged volley
of their own, save for the Watch. Throwing hooks above the fences, the
Deoraithe found physical purchase and began to climb. I had hope, for a
moment. Until the fences above the Proceran archers angled to drop the
remaining stones harmlessly in front of the crusaders and disappeared.
They shortly after reappeared above the fences keeping my skirmishers
boxed in, cutting cleanly through ropes and hooks. Fuck. The colder,
calm part of me noted that they'd had to dismiss some fences to add them
elsewhere. That implied there was a limited amount they could make.
Commanded by Masego, my mage lines gave answer. Seven massive spears of
lightning began to form above our fortifications, strengthening with
every heartbeat.

``Pickler,'' Juniper growled behind me, standing in front of a scrying
bowl. ``I want continuous fire on those archers. Don't stop even if it
doesn't go through.''

On the other side of the field, sorcery flared up.

Hierophant had torn through their mages for two days before they stopped
trying to scry, and it has cost them at least twenty practitioners. They
had easily ten times that many left, though, and Archer had confirmed at
least one of the heroes looked wizardly. If it came to a sorcerous
pissing match, I would still bet on my own men. They'd been taught
rituals by Hierophant, and more than a third were both Praesi and
Legion-trained. Procer was a magical backwater, if it came to trading
blows they should come out on the losing side. Which was, I saw as the
enemy sorcery took shape, why Malanza had ordered them to do nothing of
the sort. Praesi magical shields tended to be translucent and tinged
blue, when not entirely transparent. The Proceran equivalent was opaque
and yellow. Four layers came down in front of the fences even as the
spears of lightning shot out. My mages were better, as I had thought.
All four layers broke under the screaming storm of lightning. But by the
time the sorcery reached the fences it had been weakened enough they
merely shuddered under the impact. Layered defence, the cold part of me
noted. Clever. The rest of me bit my lip until it bled, as I realized
the crusaders were just going to slug it out like this again and again
until all my skirmishers were dead.

``Juniper,'' I called out, the orc turning to meet my gaze. ``Broken
Bells?''

She cursed virulently in Kharsum but nodded. The horns sent out our five
thousand knights into the fray, palisades opening to let them stream
out. Would it be enough? No, I already knew. It wouldn't. But it might
lower the damage of this from disaster to wound. Talbot had his knights
form into a wedge the moment they had the room, galloping out to the
left to hit half the enemy cavalry even as Pickler's engines hammered
the fences above the crusader archers repeatedly. They held anyways. I
knew better than to get my hopes up, and my pessimism was rewarded when
the forward sides of the fences keeping my skirmishers contained winked
out. They reappeared in a long diagonal in front of the advancing Broken
Bells and my fingers clenched once more. Not a single of the knights
died, but the length of the fence was unbreakable and forced them to
take the long way around. Keeping them away long enough that the enemy
horse would reach my skirmishers unimpeded. With a mixture of grief and
pride, I saw that my crossbowmen were in formation and returning fire.
They took the losses from the enemy archers, ignoring them for a hard
volley into the tip of both Proceran cavalry contingents. Horses fell
and screamed, men went down. The charge continued. The remainder of the
Watch split in half, heading for the edges of the fences on both sides.

Masego, I knew, would not take lightly that he had been thwarted even
once. The lack of lightning spears forming in the sky to answer the
yellow shields that had come down a second time heralded that he would
have gotten\ldots{} creative, and when my old friend unleashed his wrath
he did methodically. A jagged shard of red light bloomed and struck the
first shield. The yellow sorcery shattered, but the shard remained.
Another shard formed, and struck the back of the first shard like a
hammer on a chisel. The second shield broke. It was working, but too
slow. The Watch was getting away but the Proceran cavalry hit my
skirmishers and it was a massacre. They tore through the first three
ranks like wet parchment before the momentum was even slightly slowed.
Another shard formed and the third shield broke when it hit -- and then
the fourth shield as well, a heartbeat later. They were accumulating
strength, I grasped. The light fence shuddered but held. In the handful
of heartbeats before the fourth shard formed and hit, at least a
thousand of my men died as I watched in silence. When the light finally
broke it was too late for them to even run. The riders were already
among them.

``Pickler,'' Juniper said quietly. ``All ballistas are to fire into the
cavalry. Keep the trebuchets on the the archers.''

I opened my mouth, then closed it. The orc's face was grim as she met my
gaze. The siege engines, we both knew, would kill our crossbowmen as
well as the cavalry. But those men had been dead the moment the Proceran
horse reached them, the cold part of me assessed. This way, at least,
the ranks furthest back could be salvaged. The salvo pulped soldiers and
horses alike when it hit. Theirs and mine both. I felt wintry, vicious
rage well up in my veins. For a moment I indulged the wind-like whispers
and the poisonous comfort they brought, but then I dragged my mind back
to clarity. Pickler managed another handful of hits on the enemy horse,
but less than a hundred died from them. They were already retreating and
cavalry was hard to hit with mostly static engines. Especially when
fences bloomed to cover their retreat, as Malanza smoothly arranged. My
surviving men fled back to the palisade. We had sent four thousand onto
the field, Juniper and I.

A bare thousand returned, more than half of it Watch.

``We have,'' Juniper spoke into the graveyard silence of the general
staff, ``underestimated Princess Malanza.''

In the distance, trumpets sounded again and the Proceran infantry began
to advance as the forces that had engaged pulled back. In front of them,
seven lone silhouettes took the lead. \emph{Good}, I coldly thought.

I was in a killing mood.