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\hypertarget{heroic-interlude-injunction}{%
\chapter*{Heroic Interlude:
Injunction}\label{heroic-interlude-injunction}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{heroic-interlude-injunction}} \chaptermark{Heroic Interlude: Injunction}

\epigraph{``Forty-nine: if any wizard over the age of fifty suddenly becomes
evasive when asked about your parents, you may safely assume yourself to
be either royalty or related to your archenemy in some way.''}{``Two Hundred Heroic Axioms'', author unknown}



The interesting thing about morality, Hanno had found, was that it
evolved across the years. Living through shards of a hundred heroes and
heroines' lives had made it impossible to deny as much, though he
disliked the thought that concepts like Good and Evil could be mutable.
The Book of All Things, after all, did not change -- neither should
ethics. Yet, a few thousand years ago, most of Calernia had once
practiced slavery. The ancestors of nations that now found the very
notion repugnant had then been unable to function without it. Procerans,
in days before there was a Procer, had raided each other for plunder and
workers. The Titanomanchy had built its wonders as much by the legendary
craftsmanship of the Gigantes as on the backs of a hundred thousand
Arlesite slaves. Even Ashur, his homeland, had once kept a citizenship
tier beneath them all where forced labourers and servants were inducted
into. But over the years, that ugly reality had been\ldots{} outgrown.
Recognized as unworthy of all those who would call themselves the
children of the Heavens.

And so slavery went from commodity to sin, and Creation was made a
little brighter. There were, of course, holdouts. The drow of the
Everdark still sent raiding parties to the surface to grab the unwary
and spirit them below. The Kingdom of the Dead still farmed men like
crops, growing them and reaping them in an even darker kind of sin to
swell the ranks of its armies. In Mercantis people were sold like cattle
to all those who had the coin and the inclination, the City of Bought
and Sold concerned solely by the lustre of gold. But the city famous for
it, the one that had perfected the art of chaining others centuries
before the Miezans first glimpsed the shores of Calernia, had always
been Stygia. Its slave phalanxes, the Spears of Stygia, were famous on
the continent for unflinching obedience and having had fear scoured out
of them by the concoctions and sorceries of the Magisters. The entire
city was a den of iniquity every passing day in a way that made the
worst excesses of Helike pale.

The White Knight watched the tall banner floating above the camp, gold
and grey set with two pure white cranes. Redress and Retribution, they
were called, the patron spirits of Stygia. Lesser gods that had settled
in the heart of the city when it was first built -- he knew this for a
fact for he'd watched one of them millennia ago centuries ago.
\emph{Golden beak dipped in blood, eyes older than her entire bloodline
red with hatred that was utterly inhuman. It would not matter. She was
the Sword of the Free: she would wrest her people from chains and lead
them to found a city in the east. A land where no would ever rule over
them again. She rose, wounded but unbowed, and fought again.} Hanno
blinked, chasing away the memories not his own. Over two months since
he'd fought the Black Knight and still sometimes the other lives
trickled through into him. He'd come very close to dying, that day. That
had consequences.

``Money for thinking,'' the Champion said.

``Copper for your thoughts,'' Hedge corrected in a low voice.

``Copper is money,'' the Levantine replied condescendingly. ``Witch
wrong again. Do you no get tired of it?''

``Let's move,'' Hanno said, interrupting before the bickering could
start in earnest. ``Follow the plan.''

He saw the Hedge Wizard open her mouth from the corner of her eye, but
her sister thumped her with her staff. Priestess was, he had to admit,
the most reliable of his companions in temperament. Though considering
her competition was a drunken disappearing Bard, her actively
argumentative sister and brawler who kept trophies of her kills, that
might not be saying much. Still, he knew from the Chamber of Borrowed
Lives that no Named who lived longer than a few years managed to avoid
growing some\ldots{} quirks. The power conferred onto them by the Gods
shaped them as much as they shaped it. Regardless he got along with her
the best. More than once they'd found themselves sharing a comfortable
quiet in the back while the rest of their band bickered aimlessly. The
four heroes crept across the grassy field, Hedge's spell keeping them
hidden from the moonlight even as they neared the outskirts of the
Stygian camp. A palisade of wooden stakes had been raised and
spear-slaves patrolled behind them. He could hear them pass by, when he
pressed his ear against the wood.

``Priestess,'' he said.

The dark-haired woman nodded. The tip of her staff traced a circle on
the surface of the palisade and a heartbeat later the wood crumbled into
ash. They passed through, one after another. Hanno glanced at Champion
and Hedge through the slit of his barbute.

``Half an hour,'' he reminded them. ``That's all we'll need. Retreat
afterwards.''

``Will make river of blood,'' Champion said enthusiastically from under
her badger-shaped helm. ``Eat hearts of enemies.''

``That's cannibalism,'' Hedge said.

``Not so,'' the Levantine said. ``Says in Book. Allowed if they
wicked.''

``The Book of All Things does not excuse eating people,'' the Wizard
firmly stated.

``Maybe in lame Free Cities version,'' Champion replied sceptically.

They both turned to the Ashen Priestess, the only individual among them
with an actual religious education. The heroine stared back with
hickory-coloured eyes.

``I'm not humouring this with an actual response,'' she informed them
flatly. ``Get moving before I decide to make the two of you
incontinent.''

``Mighty Priest-Witch true monster,'' the Champion said admiringly
before fleeing.

Hedge met her sister's eyes for a moment longer before making a tactical
withdrawal, paling a bit.

``Can you?'' Hanno asked, morbidly curious.

He had a trick to discern lies -- it was common, for those sworn to the
Choir of Judgement -- but using it drew on his Name and he still had a
fight ahead of him.

``I fed Alkmene an herbal concoction when were we twelve to make her
believe I could,'' Priestess admitted, the sly shadow of a smile on her
lips.

Hanno would have snorted if the situation was any less serious. They
fell into step together naturally, his longer stride shortening to
accommodate her own. There'd been no need to rely on his few memories of
fighting Stygia in the past to deduce where the Magisters would be
camped: while the entire rim of he fortified camp was rough burlap
tents, the centre was absurdly luxurious and bustling with servants
during the day. Without Hedge to guide them around the wards and keep
them out of sight, the two of them had to be careful. The White Knight
could feel sorcery, if he attuned himself, and Ash could outright see it
-- but neither of them were trained in picking up on the subtler
effects, much less bypass them. They sidestepped an alarm ward early on,
but found to their displeasure that deeper in there was another ward
that circled entirely around the circumference of the cmap. The
Priestess could dismantle it, of course, but that would be giving away
their presence. They hid in the shadows for a while instead, waiting for
their distraction to arrive, and were eventually rewarded by a spray of
fireworks that set fire to a dozen tents in the distance followed by a
booming voice challenging the entire camp to single combat. Slaves
soldiers immediately began to mobilize, and only then did the two heroes
cross the alarm ward. Stealth was no longer the game, now. Swiftness was
the line of life and death.

The first Magister they found was obviously drunk, a grey-haired woman
leaning against a post and breathing like someone trying not to throw
up. Lean face, eyes dulled by liquor and long dark robes whose sleeves
tangled with the many rings on her fingers. All Magisters were mages,
and only gained the title by showing power and ruthlessness. Neither of
those things mattered, when the mage could not see you coming. The White
Knight's sword took her in the throat without warning, hacking straight
through. A cry of surprise came from ahead, the corpse dropped and the
battle began.

Green sorcery lashed out in a stream at him, but Hanno ducked to the
side and broke into a run. A Spear of Stygia burst out of a tent to the
side, but in a flash turned into a pile of ashes. The Magisters were
aware they were under attack, now. Within moments at least a dozen more
mages stormed out of the large silken pavilion in the centre of the
camp, the rings on their hands glinting as they immediately began
spellcasting. The Wandering Bard had told him there were fifteen in
total, sent by Stygia to lead its army against Nicae. Decapitating the
head of the snake was why he'd taken come with his companions tonight. A
slave army without masters was as good as paralyzed, and might actually
retreat back to Stygia. The more casters joined the fray, the closer to
him the spells came: they stood in a tight cluster, and for all that
they were wretched souls one and all he almost admired the skill being
shown. Spells led into each other, herding him into harsher attacks like
a horse being led to water. The Light flooded his veins, sharpening his
reflexes far beyond limits as he began to weave and duck through the
volleys directed at him, not even a full step ahead. Another slave tried
to spear him through the side, only to be caught by the edge of a black
orb that saw the man;s skin contract and tear under the sudden pressure.
The Magisters did not care who else died in their attempt to put him
down. He'd expected nothing less from slavers.

``\textbf{Ride},'' the White Knight said.

Light wove itself into a horse in the blink of an eye and even as Hanno
deftly leapt onto its back he felt a lance of light form in his hand.

``Aspect,'' one of the Magisters noted, tone calm.

``Suppression,'' another ordered.

Fourteen jets of black light bloomed, emanating from outstretched hands,
and combined their streams at him. Hanno struck at the malevolent power
with his lance, but after a few heartbeats his weapon broke into shards
and the power of the Magisters tore through his mount as well -- the
White Knight grit his teeth to ignore the pain of the feedback from
having an aspect overpowered. He fell kneeling to the ground,
unsheathing his sword again.

``Full attack, before he uses a second,'' a woman's voice stated.

Before the White Knight could react, three stakes of obsidian nailed
both his feet to the ground, going through his armour like it was
butter. The twelve remaining Magisters finished their incantations a
moment later, fire reeking of sulphur blooming in their hands.

``We are Magisters of Stygia, boy,'' the woman who'd just spoken, a cold
smile on her face. ``Even heroes kneel before us.''

The twelve spheres of hellfire hit him in the chest almost
simultaneously. Hanno unhesitatingly flared the Light under his skin
where the impact was happening -- though that was enough to spare his
flesh, their spells melted straight through his plate and threw him into
a tent like a rag doll. If he'd not used his Name, there would be a
smoking hole where his ribcage currently stood. With a grunt, he rose to
his feet and tried to get the silk panels off his head before he could
get hit again. No doubt the slaver mages were feeling rather smug at the
moment, certain of their superiority. They'd been batting him around
since the beginning, after all. That was their mistake. They'd used
their strength on the one who, of the two present, could take a beating.
All the while ignoring the other.

``Though their horses and chariots are like a river unto Creation,
though their spears be forest and their sword be mountains, the Gods
pass judgement unto them. Do not dread, for I bear the word of the
Heavens and that word is \textbf{begone}.''

The Ashen Priestess' voice rang loud a clear like a trumpet across the
chaotic camp. Finally rid of the silk, Hanno was just in time to see the
circle of blinding light form around the standing Magisters. Panic
flickered across their faces for a single moment, and then the miracle
wiped away the world. Even his Name wasn't enough to keep the ringing
out of his ears, or prevent the blindness that burned his retinas. Ten
heartbeats later, when the terrible whiteness finally left his eyes, all
the White Knight saw where the Magisters had once stood was a faint
shimmer of light. Of the men and women, there was not a trace. Ash was
panting, leaning on her staff: this was one of the more strenuous
miracles she could call on, and one that took long to prepare. Against
the likes of the Calamities, attempting to use it would be a death
sentence. But these had been a different breed they were facing. Men and
women ready to lean into their arrogance. And for all that the miracle
took long to bring forth, there was no denying the effectiveness of the
harsh judgement of the Heavens meted out. The White Knight limped to his
friend and allowed her to lean on his shoulder: they needed to get
moving soon, but they had a few moments still. There was a flicker of
movement behind them and Hanno's fingers tightened around the grip of
his sword, but it was only a bird. A pigeon, to be exact, and it landed
on his shoulder.

``Well, the distraction worked,'' Hedge said, her voice unnaturally
coming out of the bird's mouth. ``Maybe a little too well.''

A sound like a dozen cauldrons rolling down a street resounded behind
them, which from experience he knew meant the Champion was running. The
Levantine came into sight not logn afterwards, her breastplate
splattered in so much blood she might as well have dipped it in a barrel
of the stuff. The White Knight frowned when he saw no one was in
pursuit. Even with the Magisters dead the slave soldiers should be
continuing the fight. Why was no one following?

``Funny cripple here,'' the Champion announced delightedly. ``Giving
speech. We beat him like renting mule, yes?''

``The Tyrant?'' the White Knight said.

Why was he -- \emph{oh.} The hero closed his eyes.

``He's taking over the Stygian army,'' Hanno said.

``Can he even \emph{do} that?'' the pigeon complained, too close to his
hear for comfort.

``Masterless slaves and a ruler Name? It's basically handed to him,''
the Wandering Bard announced cheerfully.

All their eyes flicked to their wayward fifth member, who was leaning
against a wooden pole with a flask in hand. Said hand, apparently
sweaty, slipped and she nearly hit the side of her head against her
support before gamely trying to pretend she'd always meant to do that.
Hedge snorted, which was impressive considering she was a bird at the
moment.

``Where were you, Aoede?'' Ash asked.

``Seeing a guy about a thing,'' the Bard replied vaguely.

``You are the world's most terrible riddler,'' the pigeon stated.
``There's no mystery, only non-answers and a blatant drinking problem.''

``The point of this was to remove Stygia from the equation,'' the White
Knight said, ignoring the byplay. ``We've failed.''

``But you successfully hit another point by accident, so it's all good
really,'' the Bard told them with a smile.

Hanno frowned.

``And what would that point be?''

``Taking a tool out of the other monster's toolbox,'' Aoede said,
toasting her flask. ``That said, my lovelies, now might be a great time
to leg it. You're about to have a very motivated army looking for you.''

The hero glanced at Priestess, who shrugged in resigned agreement.

``Retreat, then,'' the White Knight said, feeling somewhat robbed of a
victory.

Even as they began their flight, Hanno saw the Bard slipping an arm
around Champion's armoured shoulders and leaning close.

``Do you happen to like monster stories, Rafaella?'' she asked.

``Speak me more,'' the Levantine grinned.