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\hypertarget{heroic-interlude-balestra}{%
\chapter*{Heroic Interlude: Balestra}\label{heroic-interlude-balestra}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{heroic-interlude-balestra}} \chaptermark{Heroic Interlude: Balestra}

\epigraph{``Seventy-three: always send the comic relief in front if you
suspect there's a trap. The Gods won't allow you to be rid of them so
easily.''}{``Two Hundred Heroic Axioms'', unknown author}



The Wandering Bard was drunk again, and William was very much beginning
to miss his days as a solitary freedom fighter. Why the Ashuran had
decided that three days into Imperial-held territory was the time to
start drinking again was beyond him, but if she tried to grab his ass
one more time he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions. How did
she even manage to drink so much, anyway? Her knapsack was large enough
for five bottles at most, and she was halfway through her twentieth. If
she'd managed to find a Bottomless Bag and she was using it for booze
instead of something actually useful, William was going to have a fit.
An actual bloody fit, with screaming and everything.

``She's surprisingly eloquent, for someone so deep in her cups,'' the
hooded woman next to him remarked.

The Deoraithe observer went by Breagach, which he had a feeling meant
something scathingly ironic in the Old Tongue. Still, she was by far the
most tolerable member of the band of idiots he'd managed to assemble. It
was a shame the Duchess still refused to get into the fight until her
conditions were met, but that Breagach had stuck around was a good sign.

``I'd be more enthused if she wasn't using that eloquence to try to get
into Hunter's trousers,'' William replied.

``To be fair,'' Breagach replied drily, ``he has few other clothes to
get into.''

She wasn't wrong. The Hunter had already proved his worth by helping
them avoid the Ninth's wolf riders on two occasions, but that didn't
change the fact that the man wore fewer clothes than an exotic dancer.
The other Named had shown up in Marchford wearing tight pants and a
leather vest that left his pectorals on prominent display, the tribal
tattoos adorning his entire body only barely giving out the impressions
he wasn't mostly naked. The silver bells and faerie trinkets that were
woven into his hair chimed gently whenever he wasn't trying to sneak
around, a ridiculous counterpart to the grim-faced stoicism the man
tried to display at all times. Tuning out the Bard's horrifying attempts
to break into a serenade while holding a bottle of gin in one hand and
her lute in the other, William cast his eye on the rest of their
company.

The Bumbling Conjurer was fiddling with his belt again, fighting a
losing battle in trying to make a strap meant for a man twice his size
fit his narrow hips. The Thief was slowly edging in the Conjurer's
direction while he was distracted, probably to rifle through his bags
again. He wished he could say it was the first time she'd be robbing an
ally, but the cheeky brat had been eating her rations on what he was
pretty sure was the Duke of Liesse's personal silverware. William
cleared his throat and glared at her. She flashed him an unrepentant
grin, flipping back her short dark hair and strolling away with her
hands in her pockets.

The Lone Swordsman pushed down a sigh for what seemed to be the
hundredth time. He had a suspicion that the nature of his Role made
interacting with others heroes even more irritating. In some ways he'd
been lucky to manage to find four other Named for what he had planned --
five was the best pattern, for heroic enterprises -- but keeping them on
track was like trying to herd a gang of cats, at least half of which
were assholes. The only saving grace was that the sixty soldiers
Countess Marchford had granted him were as professional as it got, all
of them former Royal Guard she'd taken into her service after the
Conquest. Like him, they were itching to get into Summerholm and strike
a blow for the Kingdom. Shapes were moving about in the dark up ahead,
close to the Hwaerte's bank, and his hand drifted towards the Penitent's
Blade. Breagach shook her head.

``Our scouts are returning,'' she said.

William decided not to ask how she could see so well in the dark when
even his Name-vision could not. He had a feeling she was a member of the
Watch, or at least had been trained by it, and everybody knew the
Watchers of the March had ancient sorcerous tricks up their sleeves. The
five soldiers who'd gone ahead trickled back into their makeshift camp,
the officer among them heading straight for him.

``Lieutenant Hawkins,'' William greeted him.

``Sir,'' the man replied, obviously resisting the habit to salute. ``We
have a problem.''

``My life is a series of problems, Lieutenant,'' the Swordsman replied,
more honestly than was strictly warranted. Breagach snorted. ``What's
the situation?''

The older man coughed. ``There's an Imperial patrol headed our way.''

William's eyes sharpened. ``How many?''

``Just a single line,'' the man replied. ``We're close enough to
Summerholm they've lowered the numbers.''

The hero's fingers closed against the handle of his sword, feeling its
hunger wake. To think there'd been a time where he'd thought that using
a blade of legend was a privilege instead of a burden.

``Could we go around it?'' he asked.

``They don't have goblins along, so it's possible,'' Hawkins admitted.
``But it'd be risky, sir.''

The soldier glanced sideways at the Bard, who was currently trying to
find a rhyme for `butt cheeks' and cheerfully failing.

``We're not the most\ldots{} quiet group, with all due respect,'' the
lieutenant finished.

``Very politely put,'' Breagach murmured.

William grunted in dismay. ``Get the men ready,'' he told Hawkins.
``We're taking them out.''

The lieutenant nodded, his hand twitching in a repressed salute once
again before he marched away.

``General Afolabi will notice that one of his patrols went missing,''
the Deoraithe said after Hawkins got out of earshot. ``You took him by
surprise at Marchford, but he is far from incompetent.''

None of the fucking generals were incompetent, that was the worst part
about fighting the Empire. Countess Elizabeth has been stalemating with
General Sacker when he'd left, which was why it was so important they
struck true in Summerholm. With that bitch Heiress coming out of nowhere
with her mercenary army to take Dormer, the rebellion was losing
momentum.

``As long as we manage to make it to the city fast enough, there
shouldn't be a problem,'' he grunted. ``Thief has a way in, it's why
she's here.''

``I did wonder why you had her along,'' Breagach admitted. ``She's yet
to contribute much of worth to this enterprise.''

``She'll pull her weight when we get to Summerholm,'' William replied.

Hopefully. Otherwise he'd just taken on a massive pain in his ass for no
valid reason. The conversation was cut short when it became obvious
their soldiers were ready to move out. The Lone Swordsman wasted no time
telling the other Named to get in gear, simply glaring silently at them
until they were uncomfortable enough to fall in line. Their scouts were
nothing if not competent and the Bumbling Conjurer somehow managed not
to set himself on fire, so they managed to steal a march on the enemy.
After a soft-spoken conference with Hawkins, William agreed to split
their party in three to better surround the legionaries: allowing even
one of them to get away could ruin this entire enterprise.

The dark-haired hero reluctantly allowed the Thief to join another
group, deciding that the Bard was the liability he needed to keep an eye
on. Breagach remained with him as he hid with his twenty soldiers in the
tall grass, no one even bothering to try to tell her what to do. She'd
already made it perfectly clear that she did not consider herself under
the authority of anyone here. The moonlight had yet to reveal the orcs,
but if he closed his eyes William could hear them. They were still a way
off, but at the pace he estimated they were walking he wouldn't have to
wait too long on them.

``That's a nice sword you've got,'' the Bard crawling up to his side.

William twitched. ``I've already told you, I'm not interested in-``

``I didn't mean \emph{that} sword, sweetcheeks,'' she chuckled, then
raised an eyebrow. ``Unless\ldots{}''

``No,'' the Swordsman retorted through gritted teeth.

``Shame,'' the Bard sighed. ``Decent way to get the tension out before a
fight. But back to that mighty sword of yours. I can feel the
enchantments on it from where I'm standing. Old stuff. Powerful stuff.
Does it have a name?''

He eyed the other hero carefully. ``The Penitent's Blade,'' he replied,
not finding a reason to deny her the information besides her general
existence being an irritant.

She let out a quiet whistle. ``Now that's interesting. Subtler than I
would have thought, too. Not `a blade that inflicts penitence' but `the
blade of a penitent'.''

She hummed, dark eyes set in a darker face smiling under her lazily
closed pupils.

``Someone's been a \emph{very} bad boy,'' she murmured. ``Not as squeaky
clean as you look, are you?''

``That's got nothing to do with you,'' William replied harshly.

``It's important for a bard to know what kind of story she's in,'' the
Ashuran denied with an indolent smile. ``See, normally I would have
pegged you for being aligned with the Choir of Judgement, but there's
never more than one of those at a time. Thought you might be with the
Choir of Fortitude instead, but I read you all wrong didn't I? No,
you're aligned with the Choir of Contrition.''

``And why would you care?'' the Swordsman replied.

``I don't usually sing songs about boys and girl who shook hands with
Contrition,'' the Bard told him softly. ``I know half a dozen, of
course, but I never liked singing tragedies.''

``This isn't a story, Bard,'' William grunted.

``It's all a story, Lone Swordsman,'' the Ashuran replied with a
mirthless smile. ``And I don't know of any one where a young boy cutting
up people with a piece from a Hashmallim's wing ends well for the boy in
question.''

The Swordsman stilled, blood running cold. How could she \emph{know}?
There were some who knew of the Choirs, and it made sense a Name that
ran so heavily on lore would know of it, but had she seen one of the
angels? The green-eyed hero watched the Bard's face carefully, then
decided against it. No one who'd seen what he'd seen could ever remain
so carefree. Gods, what he remembered from that night\ldots{}
\emph{Fire, brilliant fire. A light that sears deeper than darkness ever
could.} The House of Light had taught him that angels were beautiful
beyond human ability to comprehend, but they had never said that beauty
would be a terrible thing. It had changed him, bearing the full of a
Hashmallim's presence. Taught him the true price of atonement.

``You're drunk,'' William replied dismissively, hoping it was enough to
end this conversation. ``You should lay off the bottle for a while.''

The Bard chuckled ``How can I, sweet thing, when there's just so much to
drink about?''

``The orcs are here,'' Breagach whispered, and the Swordsman nearly
jumped out of his own skin.

Shit, how long had the Deoraithe been there? He hadn't heard her get
close at all. He cast a wary look at her but the hooded woman was
looking ahead, where the twenty legionaries were slowly making their way
down a slope. Regulars, by the look of their armour. Heavies and sappers
were only rarely sent on patrols.

``The other groups should have them surrounded by now,'' William spoke.

The Hunter and the Conjurer would have the back, the Thief and
Lieutenant Hawkins the side. With the Swordsman's own group in front of
them, their only way out led straight into the river. The officer in
charge of the enemy line suddenly called a halt, and spat our curses in
their disgusting excuse for a language.

``They saw one of us,'' the Bard voiced. ``Too late, though.''

William was inclined to agree. The legionaries slowly formed a square as
his own soldiers emerged from cover, pulling the noose tight. The
green-eyed hero got to his feet and his men followed suit, carefully
moving forward. The enemy lieutenant called out something in orcish and
her legionaries replied with a few scattered laughs before slamming
their shields into the ground. Voice echoing as one, they started
calling words out in the same tongue.

``Breagach,'' William asked urgently. ``What are they casting?''

The Deoraithe shook her head as the enemy slammed their shields again,
the bang punctuating the end of a sentence.

``Not casting,'' she murmured. ``Singing. That's the Chant of the
Dead.''

Curiosity lit up the Bard's eyes. ``Never heard that one before,'' she
admitted ``What are they saying?''

The hooded woman cocked her head to the side, then spoke in cadence.

``We,

Broken spears

Shattered shields

Come to die.''

The shields hit the ground in a thunderclap.

``We,

Remnant lost

Forlorn hope

Come to die.''

Like a hammer on the anvil, the shields rang.

``We,

Carrion-feeders

Grave-fillers

Come to die.''

The shields came down one last time and Breagach translated the last
verse almost solemnly.

``We,

Ruin-children

Stand ready

Come to die.''

A shiver went up the hero's spine. ``You're sure it's not a spell?'' he
asked again.

``The Duchy has records of them doing this before,'' Breagach replied.
``It's what their warriors sing when they know they're not coming back
from a battle.'' The Deoraithe sighed. ``Beautiful tongue, Kharsum.
Well-suited to poetry.''

``Wolves howl at the moon,'' William replied sharply. ``That does not
detract from the necessity of putting them down.''

Breagach half-turned in his direction, features hidden by the shadows of
her hood. She did not reply. Indifferent to her opinion, the Lone
Swordsman unsheathed his sword.

``FORWARD!'' he called out.

His Name surged through his veins, singing a song of carnage.
\emph{This} was what he meant for, not shadow games and politics. Him
and his blade against the Creation, setting it right one corpse at a
time. He sped ahead of the soldiers, feet carrying him at a swiftness
beyond mere mortals until he impacted with the legionary shield wall.
The orc facing him grunted at the blow and stabbed low but William
sneered and spun around him, slipping into the enemy's formation.
Casually, the Penitent's Blade keened as it tore through the greenskin's
throat. Blood spilled over the ground but William had already moved on,
kicking down another monster to widen the opening in their formation.

The officer moved towards him, roaring a challenge, but he spat in the
creature's face and his sword cleaved through her shield effortlessly.
She cursed and tried to swing her blade but it was much, much too late.
A flick of the wrist sent her head tumbling to the ground, the blood
spray drenching him in crimson as he smiled. His soldiers hit the enemy
line a moment later, forcing it in tight vice. The orcs were pushed back
towards him like meat into a grinder, his blade scything through the
screaming monsters as they fought and died like dogs. Red steam started
rising from his armour as a white glow took hold of it, his movements
quickening as he whirled among the Empire's footsoldiers and claimed the
lives that were the Kingdom's due.

The orcs did not break, but it mattered little.

The last of them died to the Thief, the dark-haired woman carelessly
slipping a knife in the monster's throat in a flash of silver before
stepping away to leave the body to fall. Silence reigned over the
battlefield as William stood in the centre of a ring of corpses, the
grisly monument to his skill unfolding like the petals of a bloody
flower. The Penitent's Blade pulsed under his grip, keeping time with
his heartbeats. \emph{Yes}, he thought, \emph{this will do.} He could
not deny it had felt viciously satisfying to take out his frustrations
on targets so thoroughly deserving of it.

``See to the wounded, pack your gear,'' he ordered the others. ``We move
out immediately.''

They had work ahead of them. To Summerholm they would go. In the enemy's
own fortress, where the Empire hid behind walls they had stolen to feel
safe. And when they got there? They were going to break a legend.

They were going to kill a Calamity.