webcrawl/APGTE/Book-5/out/Ch-141.md.tex

\hypertarget{winter-iv}{%
\chapter*{Bonus Chapter: Winter IV}\label{winter-iv}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{winter-iv}} \chaptermark{Bonus Chapter: Winter IV}

\epigraph{``One must admire the thriftiness of Callowan war-making, given
the cost of arming bold orphans with enchanted swords compared to that
of crafting undead plagues and flying fortresses. They even get to reuse
the sword, most the time, if rarely the orphan.''}{Dread Empress Prudence, the Frequently Vanquished}



The silence was how he knew it'd all gone wrong.

Hanno of Arwad was no longer a green boy in the ways of Named, if well
short of the priceless experience someone like the Saint or the Pilgrim
could rightfully boast of, but he'd been allowed to learn the lessons of
others. The softest touch of \textbf{Recall} saw them all drift to the
surface, the parade of kindred memories. The Noble Corsair stepping onto
a ship still and dead, the Shining Princess finding the great hall of
Denier empty as the night sky, the Silent Slayer finding a clearing in
the Brocelian without a single sound to mar its almost oppressive hush,
a hundred others. A thousand. The aspect was best used scarcely, when
reaching for patterns, for it was so easy to get lost in that endless
sea of memories. Easier still to realize the smallness of what Hanno
truly was, but a single speck of light within a great and ancient star.
Such silences were the herald of dark news, of ambush, of the Enemy
having struck. No surprise marred the brow of the White Knight when he
reached the narrow stone corridor that led into the Lower Keep and he
found splayed before him half a dozen corpses. Cleves soldiers, the
prince's own men, in good ring mail and wielding long halberds. Steady
sorts, Hanno knew from having fought at their side on the walls, and
skilled at war.

They'd been slaughtered like helpless children.

Some manner of long blade had slashed through the mail and broken both
bone and metal with the sheer might it was being swung with. The
crudeness of the wound a second glance revealed was undeniable sign this
was the work of a Revenant: the blade had not been sharp enough to
warrant cutting through good armour, which meant either strength beyond
the reach of mortal men or some other manner of power. It was useless to
attempt recalling with so little to go on, the White Knight decided, and
would lose him time besides. He bowed his head to the dead as he passed,
apologetic for not lingering long enough to close the eyes of the dead.
Hanno would seek to keep the living alive before giving honour to the
dead, though his lengthening stride as he left was poor repayment for
the loyal service these men and women had kept to while they still drew
breath. The Ashuran set the guilt aside for now, instead considering the
wounds as he sped forward. Too lengthy and broad to be a longsword's
work, closer to a broadsword or greatsword. Both were popular weapons
with Proceran fantassins from the northern Alamans principalities. Those
few soldiers of fortune who could afford one, anyway.

Most likely a Revenant borne of the Principate, then. Or else one so old
as to make the current preferences of weaponry among Calernian peoples
irrelevant. Even the former was unfortunate, given how few of those
lives he'd explored in depth. Proceran heroes -- and villains as well,
from what he could tell -- rarely left the principality they'd been born
in. They tended to be called by places as much as stories, in truth.
Even Christophe, perhaps the most potentially powerful Mirror Knight in
the history of that Name, had been called to his fate by the need of the
Elfin Dames for a defender of their sacred waters. Often heroes from the
Free Cities and Callow were more useful to learn from by simple virtue
of having more often fought and encountered greater breadth of
opponents, and when it came to the affairs of wilderness there was
simply no matching the Dominion's many heroes. Hanno had also called on
the memories of the legendary founder of the Valiant Champion's
bloodline to learn his delicious garlic lamb roast recipe, which
admittedly some might consider an abuse of his powers. Not that any of
his companions had ever complained when it was his turn to cook. Theft
of recipes aside, Hanno was coming to realize that in the way he'd
chosen to look through lives he'd left a gap in his understanding of
Proceran ways. It would have to be remedied to, should he survive the
day.

The Low Keep he was moving through was little like a castle as they were
built these days, instead as much a shelter and a tomb as it was a
fortress and a home. Those who had raised it, thought to be either
eastern kin to the western tribes that grew to be the Lycaonese or
another people entirely that'd been ended by Alamans northern expansion,
had preferred digging below to raising great walls. Yet they must have
been a people used to being besieged, for the Low Keep's looping
corridors ended in narrow chokepoints and were curved in a way that
would allow the defender to strike behind the shield of an attacker. The
first of those narrowing points he encountered had seven dead soldiers,
the second a full twenty scattered beyond a broken door and barricade.
The third had a thick steel grid keeping corpses up against the wall,
having been blown off its hinges and straight into the soldiers. A
Revenant with great physical might, Hanno thought, as he'd earlier
speculated. But not one with an aspect that'd allow it to cut through
the likes of steel, as he'd also speculated, else that grid would be cut
through instead of repeatedly hammered until it broke out of the hinges.

The White Knight was not overly familiar with the Low Keep, as he'd
mostly fought in the city proper and atop the walls, but from memory he
should not be far from what the servants called the Old Hall. Once the
banquet hall of the rulers of ancient Cleves, nowadays it was more often
used as a wine cellar for its natural coolness. The bottles and barrels
had been moved early in the siege and the Old Hall instead been made
into the bastard child of an armory and a war room, for though the Old
Hall was too small for a great council of royalty and Named it was fit
for private talks between those who had already been given duties by the
greater council. The princes and princesses who'd escaped the scuffle
above should have retreated there, given that the Old Hall's ancient and
crumbling wards had been entirely overhauled by Princess Rozala's mages
according to the Rogue Sorcerer's design. Roland had allegedly been
rather embarrassed to put these to ink, calling them a `sloppy, faulty
mimicry' of those used by the Army of Callow to protect its war camps,
but even Antigone had admitted that the Praesi wards were usually half a
century ahead of everyone else's. At least in lesser patterns, for she
maintained that in great workings no one had yet to so much as touch the
feet of the Gigantes.

Hanno has walked the airy streets of Orseis as a young man, where stone
flowed like water under the guidance of songs, where great columns of
moonstone decreed the very lay of winds and clouds, and so he'd not
argued this. It was not without reason the Gigantes were also known as
wonder-makers, even though they named themselves nothing but a pale
shadow of what they had once been.

Regardless of all else, the wards on the Old Hall ought to keep the
least of the dead from entering and hinder even the likes of Revenants.
Given the number of soldiers that escorted Proceran royals even here in
the depths of Cleves and the alleged presence of the Repentant Magister,
he might not be too late in arriving. Nephele had left behind the
destructive sorceries she'd learned in Stygia along with the other dark
teachings of the Magisterium, but that hardly meant she was defenceless.
Hanno's steps slowed as he entered a low, downwards-sloping gallery. It
could be no longer than thirty feet, though the span of it had been
swallowed by darkness: save for the two torches behind him and the two
outside the door on the other side, there was no source of light. A few
years ago, the White Knight would have let his Name augment his sight
and seen through the dark without missing a beat. He'd been taught
better since, by a green-eyed killer who'd delighted in brutally
punishing his every bad habit. If darkness had been laid here, it was
not because his opponent had expected him to be blinded by it. It was
because the moment his sight adjusted a nasty surprise was to be sprung
on him. From memory, the gallery was no more than six feet wide and the
footing deliberately tricky so that bowmen and spearmen able to strike
into the gallery through narrow slits in the side walls might find
easier prey.

``Physically strong Named rarely bother with tricks,'' Hanno noted out
loud, ``save for those used to fighting creatures even stronger than
them.''

The White Knight timed the sequence of his movements closely, first
snatching out one of the torches at his side and tossing it out into the
dark before adjusting his footing: one foot horizontal, as if prepare to
thrust out with a slender blade, but instead a flicker of Light went
down the back of his leg and Hanno propelled himself forward at inhuman
speed. The last part of the sequence, strengthening his eyes against
light, came the moment he caught a glimpse of a silhouette within the
dark. A fraction of a moment later there was a loud bang and a flash of
burning light -- the kind that would have seared his eyes powerfully,
were he adjusting them to see in the dark. Instead it merely stung and
stinging he could suffer through without batting an eye. Even as the
torch he'd thrown arced up, Hanno caught sight of a tall and broad man
in ornate bronze armour plate. Of a helm, too, depicting some snarling
creature, but before he could make out which his opponent was moving. A
greatsword swung, aimed to carve through the still spinning torch, but
as the initial heartbeat of the fight ended Hanno's movement trick ended
with him under the very torch.

He snatched it out again, thrusting it towards the helmeted head of the
Revenant, and his opponent aborted his blow before silently withdrawing
into the dark. A mere moment later, there was no sign left of the undead
Named at all.

``A wolf,'' the White Knight pensively said. ``Yet in bronze, not iron
or finer.''

Not so with the greatsword, which was well-made steel. A more recent
weapon, which was interesting. It meant the bronze armour had been kept
even with steel plate likely available and that would hardly be without
reason. Even more interesting was that he was being met in battle here,
in what Hanno could only term an obvious trap, while the undeniably
better prize would be the lives of the Proceran royalty within the Old
Hall deeper in. The White Knight was being delayed, which implied
another entity was already after those lives and the intelligence behind
this entire affair believed that other entity capable of breaching the
defence of a heroine, wards and soldiers if given long enough. Likely a
second Revenant, then, though some manner of specially crafted monster
was not impossible. It also meant that Hanno needed to pick up the pace.

``Your hiding trick only works when you have darkness to work with,''
the White Knight spoke out loud.

The dark-skinned hero genuinely believed this to be true, though that
was not why he'd revealed his conclusion to his foe. It was an unusual
scene he'd been presented with. The Revenant's former Name must have
been geared towards physical might, for him to make use of a greatsword
and so swiftly, yet he was not behaving as most Named of that bent
would. Hanno was not the kind of fool to dismiss those Named inclined to
the strength of bodies as duller than others, but it was true that the
breed tended to be more inclined towards recklessness and swift advance
than other heroes. As they should be, given that their Names usually
rewarded such audacity with luck and power. Rafaella was a good example,
for though clever and apt in tactics she tended to prefer throwing
herself into trouble with only limited planning. It was where and how
she thrived, for that was her Role as a Champion. Yet the Revenant he
now faced had preferred laying an ambush, using tricks that many heroes
would outright consider beneath them and was even now lying in wait
instead of seeking battle\emph{. Used to fighting stronger creatures,}
Hanno considered, though it did not feel like a full explanation.
Unfortunately, given that the Dead King's grasp reached across several
centuries and lands now considered quite tames had at times been
considered more dangerous than the Brocelian, this did little to narrow
the scope of possible identities. Torch still in hand, the White Knight
began to stride towards the other end of the gallery.

Bronze armour, and a helmet like a snarling wolf. The Lycaonese were the
ancient enemies of Keter and they did have a strong cultural association
with the beasts, Hanno thought, but they were hardly the only ones. And
they'd been one of the first human ethnicities in the west to begin
using iron, too, which would make the bronze armour odd. Or would it?
Iron hindered many lesser sorceries, he remembered. The darkness trick,
and perhaps even the light that had blinded him, might not be faded
aspects but instead enchantments woven into an armour. One made in
bronze, a metal that the ancient peoples of Calernia had favoured above
all others when it came to laying enchantments. Nine steps, before Hanno
reached the end of the gallery and the second part of the ambush was
sprung on him. It was the light trick that'd given it away, and it was
the same reason the White Knight had been unsatisfied with his guess of
the Revenant's former purpose. The trick had been woven to specifically
hurt a Named fortifying their eyes, which meant his opponent was used to
fighting other Named. And that meant the light at the end of the
gallery, the other two torches, was a second part to the trap.

Why even leave them, if the Revenant had advantages from the dark? The
coming ambush had been obvious enough even with only part of the gallery
shrouded in darkness. The Revenant had left a sanctuary at the end of
the obvious danger because it allowed him to dictate where Hanno would
be moving without lifting a finger. It was, the White Knight decided, a
cunning killer he was facing. One whose life might be worth learning
from, should he learn enough to tell it apart from the rest of the sea.
Three steps now, and timing would be everything. On the first step, the
White Knight breathed in. Light, never far from his grasped, stormed
through his veins. On the second step, the White Knight breathed out. He
grasped the Light by the reins, shaped it and directed it. On the third
step, the White Knight acted. He tossed the torch forward again, even as
from a dead angle's shadow the Revenant emerged and snuffed out the two
torches flanking the gallery's gate simply by clenching his armoured
fingers into a fist. The stretch if corridor ahead went dark, for all
the other torches were too far to cast light.

All that was left was the flickering flame of the torch he'd thrown,
arcing up and forward, and even as the Revenant faded into the darkness
the White Knight smiled. And stomped his armoured boot onto the ground,
releasing Light in a wave. The Revenant's looming silhouette reappeared,
seemingly startled, and Hanno idly confirmed that his guess had been
correct. It was the armour that allowed him to disappear, that same
armour touching the stone floor he'd just shot Light across. Modern
sorceries might not be so easily disrupted, but this was ancient magic:
it shattered at the slightest touch of Light. Without pausing, as the
reflected light of the arcing torch flickered across polished bronze,
Hanno called on his aspect without so much as a whisper. \textbf{Ride},
he thought, and Creation echoed of it. And now the White Knight used a
second refinement on the aspect he'd devised since the Red Flower Vales.
Namely, that while the aspect usually helped him form Light to use this
was not, strictly speaking, necessary: he could use Light already at
hand. Such as the one he'd just released across the floor, snatching it
up before it could fade and shaping it for swiftness. His arm extended,
he rammed the forming lance of light through the weakness in the
Revenant's armour, the slight space between helmet and cuirass, and felt
the Light searing its way through like a hot knife through butter.

Amaranta Viegle, long ago the Sage of the West, had spent a lifetime
studying the Light. She'd been a major influence in the shape the
Lanterns took in the centuries after and died at the age of
ninety-three, fighting a dragon with her bare fists. That last brawl had
made it into Levantine legend, but it had been not the many duels of her
early and late life that Hanno had found most useful but instead the
stretch from her fifties to seventies. During those decades she'd
experimented with applications of the Light, and though most of what
she'd set down of those studies had been lost to flame during the
Scouring of Vaccei the White Knight had sat through the revelations of
those years with her over long hours of mediation within his aspect.
Like, for example, the evening where she had grasped that with enough
concentration the initial movement ascribed to Light could still be
changed when it had been set in motion. All it required was the addition
of fresh Light, as for some reason beyond the comprehension of mortals
even a speck added to the initial Light would be enough to turn even a
pre-existing sea of the power into a completely different working by the
Light's own laws.

And so, even as the White Knight's aspect saw Light emerging from his
legs to form into a mount, he added a speck more. In the fraction of a
moment that followed he seized all the Light that'd been made, and
without missing a beat slammed the lot of it into the lance already in
the Revenant. The upper half of the dead Named vaporized, and he formed
a bladed edge along the lance's length so he could slice through the
lower half outright. He'd had only a single opening, but these days that
tended to be all that Hanno needed. Ahead of him the torch he'd thrown
clattered against the stone, and without a word the White Knight resume
his advance towards the Old Hall. The Repentant Magister ought to have
lasted this long, he thought even as he quickened his steps, and with a
turn under flickering torchlight found himself stepping into the narrow
hallway where the Old Hall's gate awaited. Corpses were strewn over the
length of it, savaged enough it was hard to tell how many bodies there
truly were. The grisly scene reeked of blood and excrement, and the
White Knight pushed down a grimace when he saw the heavy oaken doors
that should have protected the Old Hall's entrance had been ripped open.

He could not tell the state of the wards, but that boded ill.~As did the
silence that was all he could hear coming from what should be a hall
crowded with soldiers. Sword in hand, he prepared to -- the sound that
interrupted him was deafening, like someone had balled up together a
hundred screams, distilled them and unleashed them all at once. A thin
silhouette was blown out of the Old Hall and smacked against the wall
opposite its gate before nimbly rising to its feet. Long claws of steel
had been affixed to the Revenant's hands, and it bore a now
half-shattered mask of clay painted in shades of grey and green. Sound
resumed from within the hall, most of it cheers. Before the Revenant
could even decide whether to flee or attack again a small painted clay
tile, no larger than a pair of fingers, was tossed onto the ground in
front of it. The Revenant hissed in anger and tried to back away the
opposite way from the White Knight -- who noted with amusement he had
yet to be noticed -- but the moment it took a step an intricate rope
formed of what appeared to be small interlinked shield panels emerged
from the tile and snatched its foot, dragging it back.

Even as it tried to kick away the tile the sound from the hall cut out
again, as if swallowed whole, and the Repentant Magister emerged from
the Old Hall. Loose robes trailing behind her as she advanced in silken
slippers, Nephele was holding up a hand and within it was a golden
device spinning so swiftly on itself it seemed almost a sphere. It was
sucking up noise and sorcery like a hungry whirlpool.

``I did not need them to learn right from wrong,'' the Repentant
Magister said, tone hard but somehow awed -- as if even in the depths of
her wrath she could not quite believe what she was doing. ``And I will
not return to their old lessons now like some cowering child.''

The Revenant smashed the tile and the rope vanished. Hanno did not move
an inch. The Repentant Magister, with a snarl, clenched her hand around
the golden device and the deafening blast from before sounded again,
smashing the Revenant into the ancient stone and grinding it like some
monstrous millstone of noise and sorcery. A ragged remnant of the undead
Named fell to the ground, when the working ended. Nephele slowly stepped
forward even as her palm opened and the device began spinning again.

``I am not defenceless,'' the Repentant Magister said, glaring down at
the Revenant. ``I am not \emph{lessened} by looking in the eye the evil
I was once part of and choosing to cast it aside. And Gods take my
tongue if I lie, but when this war ends I shall not be ashamed of how I
fought it.''

Fingers clenched, sound and sorcery roiled, and the last remnants of the
Revenant were ground to dust. Hanno thought of how Nephele had looked
that night, weeping and afraid, and felt his heart clench with pride.
\emph{You are your worst day}, the White Knight thought, looking at the
straight-backed and clear-eyed sorceress standing before him. \emph{But
you are your finest day as well, and every single other one. Even those
yet to come.} It had been a dark day, this one, Hanno of Arwad thought.
And yet it'd become a little brighter for the light just brought into
it. \emph{This is how victory comes}, the White Knight softly smiled.
\emph{One candle lit after another, until we have chased away the
night.} Hanno sheathed his sword and stepped into the light, for the
Enemy was still afoot in the city and there was work to be done.

If his steps were just a little lighter, well, who could tell the
difference?