webcrawl/APGTE/Book-2/tex/Ch-012.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-11-report}{%
\section{Chapter 11: Report}\label{chapter-11-report}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Note: those meddling heroes keep surviving getting thrown off
cliffs. Must build taller ones in anticipation of the next encounter.''}

-- Extract from the journal of Dread Emperor Malignant II
\end{quote}

There was something morbidly fascinating about watching Hakram's new
hand move.

The naked bones were just as dextrous as when they'd been hidden under
my adjutant's flesh and muscle, though they were now animated by
necromancy instead of more natural means. He got no sensation from the
skeleton hand, he'd told me, though he could roughly gauge how much
pressure he was putting on something when holding it. I could feel the
threads of magic that kept it moving according to his will, feel how
they dug into his body and used his soul as fuel to maintain the
enchantment. I was fairly sure I could tie my own threads to puppet the
bones if I tried, which meant any decent necromancer could likely do the
same. Not a great worry considering not even antiheroes like the
Swordsman would be caught dead with anyone that dealt with the dead, but
somewhere down the line Heiress might get it into her head to pull
something. I'd have to ask Apprentice if anything could be done about
it. Hakram followed closely behind me as we strode through the main
avenue of the Fifteenth's camp, absent-mindedly returning salutes from
legionaries as we did so.

``A whole company,'' I finally sighed. ``And that's just the ones we
caught.''

The tall orc grimaced. ``A sad day when we lose more legionaries to
desertion than a run-in with heroes.''

When the dust had settled, Juniper had slapped down a report on my desk
that had taken the taste of victory, however slight, right out of my
mouth. While the soldiers under Commander Hune had been keeping the city
from exploding into revolt, almost two companies' worth of Callowan
recruits had taken advantage of the chaos to escape into the
countryside. Nauk had kept a lid on the situation as best he could and
his patrols had managed to corral about half of the deserters into a
prisoner camp, but the aftermath of that mess was a logistical
nightmare. Juniper and I had made a point out of spreading out my
countrymen across as many lines as possible to avoid the formation of
Praesi and Callowan cliques in the ranks, That measure had failed
spectacularly and now half the lines in Nauk's \emph{kabili} were
missing one or two recruits, forcing a never-ending nightmare of
transfers to fill the gaps. That we were adjusting our ranks and the
most basic unit level right before heading into an active theatre of war
had both Juniper and I in a dark mood: we couldn't linger in Summerholm
much longer, but neither could we go tangle with the rebels half-cocked.

The last news had the Silver Spears digging deep into General Istrid's
supply line until Captain and the Blackguards drove them off. Countess
Marchford had intensified skirmishes all over the front, sending packs
of barely-armed peasant conscripts to burn the fields between Vale and
the Legions of Terror to deny General Sacker foraging when she advanced.
The Empire wasn't losing by any stretch of the situation -- if anything,
that the Countess had seen fit to burn some of the best farmland in
Callow proved that much -- but neither was it \emph{winning}. And the
longer the rebels were loose, the further talk of revolt would spread.
Black knew that better than I, so I had no idea why he'd yet to pull
away another pair of legions from border duty to flank the enemy. There
must have been angles at play I couldn't see. Regardless, the Fifteenth
needed to get into the fight yesterday and all the \emph{fucking
deserters} were costing me time. The only upside to this I could see was
that all our Callowan recruits who intended to pull a runner likely
already had. That a full fifth of my countrymen's numbers in the
Fifteenth had tried to disappear into the wilds at the first occasion
was incredibly galling, but in some ways I should have expected it. The
overwhelming majority of the deserters had been gallows recruits,
criminals given a choice between the noose and five years of service in
the Legions.

Which also meant that there were about one hundred hardened criminals
with legionary training loose in western Callow, but for now that wasn't
my problem. General Afolabi was the one who'd have to keep the region
together after we joined the front and I wished him luck with the task.
He'd been dropping hints for the last few days that the Fifteenth's
presence in Summerholm was disruptive to civil order, and while he
wasn't wrong it still irritated me that after I'd pulled his ass out of
the fire the Soninke was trying to shoo me away. \emph{Juniper warned me
that by acting this high-handed I wouldn't be making any friends.} Fuck
it, if he couldn't deal with me taking charge to put an end to the mess
he'd allowed to fester I would likely had ended up making an enemy out
of him down the line. He was near the bottom of the pecking order when
it came to the Empire's generals, anyway: he was the most junior among
them and one of the least trusted by the Tower.

``It's a risk, Catherine,'' my adjutant gravelled. ``I won't deny if it
works they'll be useful, but if it fails\ldots{}''

``It'll hurt my credibility with the ranks,'' I acknowledged sourly.

My age had been surprisingly little of an issue when it came getting my
authority respected: I supposed I had centuries of young heroes and
villains leading armies to thank for that. Besides, according to the
census I'd had taken there was not a single of my legionaries older than
twenty-five. Which was troubling, in and of itself. Not so much that I
had no veterans to advise me, though Juniper had expressed private
misgivings about that, but that if I'd been able to arrange this as it
currently was I would have. This would not be the last war I'd be
involved in, and having the core of the Fifteenth following me from the
beginning of my career would only encourage them to obey my own orders
over those of the Tower further down the line. Once again, Black knew
this. And yet he had arranged it. More than that, nearly half my
soldiers were from Callow. My teacher was making this \emph{easy} on me,
and he wasn't in the habit of giving me unnecessary advantages.

If anything, he was a firm believer in hobbling me so I'd learn to deal
with problems from a position of weakness. \emph{So what's your game, oh
teacher of mine?} No point in thinking too long about it right now.
Black's mind was a labyrinth of vicious cleverness on the best of days.
Besides, for all that the deck had been stacked in my favour when it
came down to it I had yet to acquire the trust of the rank and file of
the Fifteenth. My age and lack of experience might not have been
divisive issues but my birth certainly was. Even having a Name and the
tutelage of a Calamity could only get me so far. If I screwed up, if I
made an obvious mistake that could be attributed to Callowan
sympathies\ldots{} That concern had made deciding the fate of those one
hundred imprisoned deserters a godsdamned thorn in my side. Juniper had
argued for crucifying the lot of them and putting them up on the
ramparts of Summerholm as a warning for the rest, but that wouldn't
\emph{solve} anything.

I was also, to be frank, a lot less sanguine than my Legate at the idea
of casually ordering a hundred gruesome deaths. And yet, I couldn't just
reintegrate them in the ranks. There was no guarantee they wouldn't run
again given the chance and I'd have a mutiny on my hands if they got off
without punishment. Besides, there was a difference between not wanting
the lot to die a brutal death spread over several days and wanting them
to get off easy. I had little sympathy for the bastards: while the rest
of my soldiers had been doing their jobs and dying in the line of duty
they'd tried to \emph{flee}. The cowardice was revolting, regardless of
the circumstances of their enrolment.

I was still in a foul mood when we arrived at the open clearing where
the deserters had been herded, forced to kneel and surrounded by twice
their number in loyal legionaries. They'd been disarmed and divested of
their armour, of course. No point in taking unnecessary risks. I strode
past them towards the wooden crate my adjutant had installed in
anticipation my address, the both of us ignoring the whispers of
``Deadhand'' that spread when Hakram was recognized. The orc had
acquired something of a reputation, by surviving a fight against not one
but \emph{two} heroes with only a lost hand to show for it. I climbed on
top of the crate, resenting the absurdity of it but painfully aware that
even kneeling some of the prisoners reached up to my chin.

``Silence,'' I ordered, and the whispers were snatched right out of
their mouths.

I resisted the urge to clear my throat, taking a deep breath. Black's
lesson on pitching my voice so it could carry far without being a yell
had seemed an affectation at the time, but I was glad of them now.

``Military tribunals were convened last night and sentences have been
given,'' I announced.

It felt strange, standing in front of over two hundred people decked out
in plate and wreathed in the dark cloak my teacher had gifted me. I felt
like a fake, like the fact that I'd been so often making it up as I went
along should have been obvious to everyone, but my gaze swept over the
prisoners and I saw only fear on their faces. There was something darkly
satisfying about that, much as the feeling unsettled me.

``For desertion, low treason and dereliction of duty while the Empire is
in a state of war, you have all been condemned to death,'' I said.

There were a few cries of dismay and some prisoners tried to get up. My
temper flared.

``\textbf{Sit the Hells down},'' I Spoke, and my voice rang like steel.

As if they'd been struck, the deserters fell back to the ground. So did
quite a few of my legionaries, I noted, though since they'd not been the
people I addressed the effect of the Speaking on them was much weaker.

``I have been urged to make examples of you,'' I growled. ``To put you
up on a hundred crosses as a warning for the next fools tempted to
run.''

I mastered my irritation and let out a deep breath.

``But that would be a waste. You owe military service to the Tower and I
fully intend to collect.''

Confusion and a little hope, but most were just wary. Waiting for the
other shoe to drop. \emph{As well they should.} It had occurred to me,
eventually, that I was trying to solve a Callowan problem through Praesi
means. It was the wrong set of tools for the job. The Kingdom of Callow
had its own military traditions, more than just the now-disbanded
knightly orders. My girlhood hero Elizabeth Alban, the Queen of Blades,
had tried to invade the Duchy of Daoine once -- though back then it had
been an independent kingdom. Well aware that the Watch would inevitably
make a butchery of whatever troops she sent in to breach their
strongholds, she'd founded a new division in the Callowan host: the
Forlorn Hope. Criminals, traitors, deserters -- she'd conscripted all
the scum at the bottom of the barrel, armed them and sent them first
into the grinder at every occasion. \emph{Using the worst of the Kingdom
to do the Kingdom's best work}, she'd famously called it. And now here I
was, with hard battles ahead of me and a full company of deserters.
There were lessons to be learned from the past, if one was willing to
look in the right places.

``As of this morning, the Forlorn Hope company has been added to the
rolls of the Fifteenth. Congratulations on your reenrolment in the
Legions of Terror,'' I announced. I paused, eyes sweeping across the
crowd. ``I see some of you are rejoicing. Wipe that smile off of your
faces. Make no mistake, deserters: this is not a mercy. I \emph{own} you
now.''

The words rolled off my tongue easily, coming unprompted now.

``Lawfully you are a dead men and women, all of you. The manner and time
of your death is at my discretion, and I intend to use you \emph{sorely}
before letting you go.''

I allowed a hard smile to stretch my lips.

``Your officers will be Praesi, as they have refrained from disgracing
themselves. Their authority over you is absolute: they've been granted
the power to carry out your sentence at any time, for any reason they
see fit.''

That had been the hardest part to implement. Obviously I couldn't use
Callowan officers, but finding volunteers to lead soldiers likely to
slip a knife in your ribs if they got a chance had been\ldots{} tricky.
Ultimately Juniper had agreed that any officer serving in the Forlorn
Hope would get a promotion out of the company after a fixed duration of
service. Ambition was not a quality my legionaries lacked, especially
those who'd gone through the College. There'd have to be oversight to
make sure that unprecedented amount of power of their soldiers wouldn't
be abused, but mentioning as much right now would have been
counter-productive to my goals. I needed them scared. But not desperate.
If they thought they had nothing to lose, there'd be no telling what
they'd do to get out.

``Your situation is not, however, entirely hopeless,'' I continued.
``Should you serve out the remaining years of your term without
incident, you will be released and your record wiped clean.''

I stared the prisoners down, feeling my Name simmer in approbation under
my skin.

``You want to be free? \emph{Earn it}.''

I let the silence that followed my last words remain for a moment,
weighing down on them, then sighed.

``Dismissed,'' I finished.

The guards set to the chore of bringing back the prisoners to their
separate camp as I stepped down from my crate, taking Hakram's offered
hand. The live one, because I wasn't touching that other one without a
damned good reason.

``We'll need to hurry if we don't want to be late,'' my adjutant
reminded me.

``Time to face the music, huh?'' I grunted.

It'd been a while since I'd seen my teacher anyway.

---

It was utterly bizarre to stand by a Miezan-style open bath while in
full armour, but not as strange as watching a Calamity putter around the
cold waters while lighting candles.

Not normal ones, I noted. They were little carved figurines of obsidian
covered in runes, and while I could see no wick they were nonetheless
burning. I almost asked Masego but he was watching his father work quite
intently: apparently he'd never attempted a scrying spell of this
particular breed before. Warlock had taken the opportunity of turning
our report to Black into a lesson for his son, which was rather
thoughtful of him. Hakram shuffled uneasily behind me, nervousness easy
to read even on his inhuman face. It was about the teeth, with the orcs:
showing the lower part of their fangs without going up to the tips was a
sign of agitation, apparently. Or so Captain had told me, and after all
those years of working with orcs I figured she'd know. My adjutant had
never met Black in person, even back in Ater. That he was now doing so
after the entire Comital Palace had been turned into a smoking wreck
probably wasn't helping his nerves. The four city blocs surrounding the
western bastion had gone the same way, but thankfully Hune's legionaries
had evacuated them in time. There was a little more to it than that, of
course: the Black Knight was a big deal, to most orcs. A living legend,
even, to those who'd been born after the Conquest and the Reforms. I
supposed it wasn't unlike if I'd been able to meet Eleonore Fairfax or
Jehan the Wise, had they still alive.

``It will do,'' Warlock suddenly announced, rising back to his feet and
tidying up his robes.

I eyed the circle of candles surrounding the water sceptically.

``I thought the reason most two-way scrying has those little pebbles at
the bottom of the bowls was so there's a sympathetic link to ground the
spell in? How does this one even work?''

The Soninke raised an eyebrow.

``Do you have a few days for me to grant you a layman's understanding of
metaphysical sympathetic effects?'' he asked drily.

``Probably not,'' I admitted.

``Then take my word for it,'' the still ridiculously handsome older man
replied. ``Masego, did you commit the pattern to memory?''

``The escapement seems a little weak to me,'' the bespectacled boy
muttered. ``I'd have to write down to formula to grasp how it actually
works, but reproducing it shouldn't be a problem.''

Warlock clicked his tongue against the top of his mouth.

``What do we say about blind imitation, Masego?'' he prompted.

Apprentice rolled his eyes. ``Sorcery without understanding is a sword
without a handle,'' he dutifully quoted. ``I don't know why you're so
fond of that saying, Father, you wouldn't be caught dead using an actual
sword.''

Warlock looked aghast at the very idea. ``Only plebs kill with their own
hands,'' he asserted, remembering Hakram and I were still in the room
only a moment latter. ``No offense,'' he added, not bothering to inject
a great deal of credibility in the appeasement.

``Some taken,'' I replied honestly.

Masego snorted. His father ignored me and waved a hand, muttering under
his breath. The waters rippled, then lit up with an unearthly glow. My
teacher's silhouette appeared on the surface, seated by a table and --
why wasn't I surprised? -- a cup of wine in hand. It was barely Noon
Bell! Praesi drinking habits were downright unwholesome.

``I can't believe you fell for that goblinfire trick, Wekesa,'' Back
spoke amusedly. ``We used the exact same one to flush out the Grey
Wizard.''

Warlock sneered. ``If Afolabi, \emph{your} general, had kept a closer
eye on his stocks it wouldn't have been an issue. Besides, I'm not the
one who toppled Stygia's government while drunk as a lord.''

Black threw up his hands in exasperation. ``Are you ever going to let
that one go?'' he replied in irrigation. ``I got a jug of wine when we
traded the donkey, was else was I supposed to do with it? I swear,
you're worse with that than Sabah is with the whole dragon affair.''

``She's right to hold it over your head,'' the other Calamity replied
with a twitch of the lips. ``It was sizing her up for dinner while you
haggled over terms.''

``It was asking for an absurd amount of goats and you know it,'' the
green-eyed man replied peevishly.

While in my case regular meals in the company of Black and Captain had
long disabused me of the notion that living legends were above petty
bickering, if the stunned look on Hakram's face was any indication it
was a fresh revelation for the orc. I cleared my throat.

``While I'd like to revisit why the Empire would be meddling in one of
the Free Cities' internal affairs at some point in the future,'' I
noted, ``I think there might be more pressing matters at hand.''

And just like that, all traces of amusement slid off the two men's
faces. I'd seen it happen in my teacher before, but witnessing the same
on a man as amiable as Warlock was a little unsettling.

``Catherine,'' Black finally bothered to greet me. ``I hear you've
managed to get the Summerholm situation under control.''

``Hello to you too, Uncle Amadeus,'' Apprentice interrupted, tone a
little irked.

``Don't be a brat, Masego,'' the dark-haired man replied lazily. ``The
greeting was implied. The same goes for your adjutant, Catherine.''

Green eyes turned to Hakram, too considering to be anything close to
friendly.

``Hakram Deadhand,'' he murmured. ``Catchy, that. If the story spreads
it will accelerate your growth into your Name.''

``Sir,'' the orc replied stiffly, saluting out of reflex.

I winced in embarrassment for him.

``At ease, Adjutant,'' my teacher replied, kind enough not to voice the
amusement I suspected he felt. ``This is not an official debriefing;
we're merely sharing information. Scribe tells me the Fifteenth managed
to take one of the heroes prisoner.''

The last sentence was inflected to sound like a question, though
everybody in the room knew it wasn't. It was one of Black's more
irritating habits to leave sentences hanging as an invitation to
elaborate instead of actually asking a question -- he did it all the
times when we had our evening lessons.

``The Hunter,'' I grunted. ``He survived the wounds only barely, he's
been kept in enchanted sleep ever since.''

Green eyes turned to Warlock and his eyebrow arched.

``He's from Refuge, I've confirmed it,'' the older Soninke said and I
blinked in surprise.

That was news to \emph{me}. Wasn't Refuge ruled by Ranger? It was an
independent polity, sure, but the few times the subject of the other
Calamity had come up she'd always been spoken of fondly. That didn't
really mesh with heroes trickling into the Empire from there, unless
there was a plan in the works.

``One of Hye's pupils,'' the Knight grimaced. ``That's going to be a
mess. Malicia will insist on diplomatic sanctions.''

``I'm sorry, did I miss something here?'' I broke in incredulously.
``Because the implication seems to be that a fairly notorious villain
was a hero's teacher.''

Warlock graced me with an amused look, Black leaned back in his seat.

``Calling Ranger a villain is something of a stretch,'' my own teacher
finally said. ``She's not particularly concerned with matters of Good
and Evil. Mostly, she does what she feels like doing. We can discuss it
more later, Catherine -- it's a somewhat complicated issue.''

The other Calamity smirked. ``You can say that again.''

Black's eyes turned cold, for a heartbeat. ``Glass houses, Wekesa,'' he
simply said, and Warlock looked abashed for a moment before they
smoothly changed the subject.

``You'll need to bring him with you when you join us south,'' the
pale-skinned Named informed me.

I frowned. ``That seems like a recipe for a heroic rescue,'' I told him
bluntly.

``The Swordsman lost,'' Masego disagreed quietly. ``You'll have free
hand for at least a month.''

Black nodded in approval. ``By that time we'll have gotten word back
from Refuge and found out whether he's been disavowed or not. If so,
summary execution. As a matter of fact, if he somehow manages to wake up
and attempt an escape you're free to deal with him however you wish.
There's limits to our forbearance, even with old friends.''

``And if he hasn't been disavowed?'' I asked.

Black's smile was perfectly pleasant, and all the more frightening for
it.

``Then things will get interesting,'' was all he said.

``We haven't identified the other prisoner yet,'' Masego contributed
when it became obvious the subject was closed. ``We've managed to heal
the burns enough to ascertain she's Deoraithe, but she's yet to regain
consciousness.''

``I might have been a little heavy-handed,'' Warlock idly admitted. ``I
forget how fragile people without Names can be.''

Black drained the rest of his cup, then set it aside. ``Is she from the
Watch? Sacker says they've been quiet, but sometimes they slip between
the cracks.''

``I was waiting on your approval for that,'' the Soninke replied. ``The
procedure always has risks, as you well know.''

``See if you can get anything out of her when she wakes up,'' Black
ordered. ``If not, go ahead with it. And do a bloodline ritual, just in
case.''

Warlock grinned. ``Not going to get on my case for summoning those
nasty, nasty devils?'' he teased.

``I'm enough of a general to know a lost battle when I see one,'' the
Knight replied sourly.

``So you \emph{can} learn,'' Warlock mused. ``I take it you need the
room for the next part of this conversation?''

``If you would,'' my teacher agreed. ``I'll be in touch later this
evening regardless.''

The dark-skinned nodded, putting his hand over his son's shoulder.

``Come, Masego,'' he announced carelessly. ``The unwashed masses have
business to discuss.''

``That's funny,'' Apprentice mused, ``you know, considering we're in
a-``

The voices faded abruptly as they passed the room's threshold, like
they'd been swallowed up. \emph{A protective ward. Hadn't even noticed
it.} I still couldn't, even now that I knew it was here, and that
bothered me more than a little bit. I knew there were few mages of
Warlock's calibre out there, but there \emph{were} some. A liability to
look into, when I next found the time. Hakram made to follow the mages
but my teacher spoke up.

``Stay, Adjutant,'' he ordered. ``This concerns you more than
Catherine.''

The sudden set of the orc's jaw betrayed his concern, but overall he
kept his face remarkably calm.

``Warlock's professional opinion is that you're less than a month away
from coming into your Name, Hakram Deadhand,'' Black announced
conversationally. ``Which means you need to be made aware of the broader
concerns regarding it.''

``There's going to be pushback,'' the orc gravelled. ``From the more
conservative elements in the Empire.''

``Pushback is something of an understatement,'' Black replied. ``I
expect that the assassination attempts will begin before the end of this
campaign.''

My fingers closed into a fist at the blunt statement of fact. ``They'd
try assassinate a Legion officer in the middle of a war?'' I spat.

``The nobility sees the outcome of the Rebellion as a foregone
conclusion,'' he noted. ``Meanwhile, Adjutant, you personify the very
trend they've been spending the last forty years trying to bury.''

``I'll take that as a compliment, sir,'' Hakram muttered.

``You should,'' Black agreed. ``The last orc to have the potential for a
Name was Grem One-Eye, boy. You walk in hallowed company.''

My officer swallowed loudly, and I couldn't blame him for it.

``Isn't there anything you can do about the assassins?'' I asked. ``I
thought those all answered to the the Tower.''

``They'll hire their blades through Mercantis, and short of burning that
city down there's not much we can do about that,'' Black admitted.
``Malicia's already suppressing the rumours in Praes and she's put the
information under the seal of the Tower -- it's illegal to even speak of
it at the moment. But those are stopgap measures, Catherine, and there's
only so long it will work.''

I gritted my teeth. ``We've got our hands full enough without dealing
with assassins on top of it,'' I grunted. ``There's got to be a way to
take care of it.''

``There is,'' Black replied mildly. ``Kill them. Brutally, publicly and
repeatedly. Eventually they'll decided that assassination isn't a
feasible way to remove him from the board and turn to other means.''

``Might be simpler to choke that off at the source,'' I said.

He snorted. ``While the thought of cleaning up the political scene of
the Empire with a vigorous round of hangings has a certain appeal, we
should deal with the open rebellion putting the south of Callow to the
torch before starting a civil war.''

I recognized the change of subject for the tacit declaration that this
particular discussion was over with.

``You've decided where the Fifteenth will be deployed, then?'' I asked.

``It's time,'' he agreed. ``You'll link up with us for a few days but
split off towards Marchford when we move south to force a battle. It's
time for the Silver Spears to be dealt with. Congratulations, Catherine:
your first battle will be as an independent detached force.''

I grinned. ``Best news I've had all week.''