webcrawl/APGTE/Book-4/tex/Ch-011.md.tex

\hypertarget{interlude-crusaders}{%
\section{Interlude: Crusaders}\label{interlude-crusaders}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``There is no absolute virtue to peace. To avoid war out of petty
fear is the exact same moral failure as waging war in name of it.''}

-- Clément Merovins, fourth First Prince of Procer
\end{quote}

``They're up to something,'' Princess Rozala of Aequitan said.

She had, that very morning, received a second report on enemy movements
that baffled her. Unlike Amadis, who already saw their victory as writ
in the sky and was positioning to benefit from the aftermath, the only
daughter of Aenor of Aequitan had made deep study of their enemy. Oh,
the Prince of Iserre was not a fool. Ambitious beyond reason, perhaps,
but no imbecile. He'd be much easier to deal with if he were. Yet he
only ever saw war as the pursuit of political advantage through steel,
and that blinded him to the nature of the foe before them. Rozala was an
Arlesite of ancient line, and her kind were as distinguished with the
sword as they were with verse. Her people had fought and fought well in
almost every major war since the founding of the Principate, and the
Malanzas had been famed as generals long before they rose to royalty.
Which was why this `Army of Callow' worried her. The Legions of Terror,
in their current incarnation, were admittedly one of the finest military
machines on Calernia -- second in lethality perhaps only to the army of
Helike, though much more numerous. Yet that was not what she was facing:
more than half the Army of Callow was foot from that same kingdom, and
more worryingly under the Black Queen's banner rode \emph{knight}s.

Prince Papenheim had taught her mother a bloody lesson in the dangers of
engaging heavy cavalry with light, at the Battle of Aisne. Rozala had no
intention of repeating the mistakes that forced Aenor of Aequitan to
drink mandrake extract. She had seen the aftermath of the Regal
Kindness, and it was neither of those things.

``Praesi are known to have a certain low cunning,'' Prince Arnaud of
Cantal mused. ``No doubt they've some sort of parlour trick in the
works.''

Rozala eyed the middle-aged man with open distaste. The man was the
living justification of every prejudice about Alamans arrogance, and she
would have disliked him for that even if her agents had not learned
about his\ldots{} proclivities. She was no Lycaonese prude, but someone
taking a knife to that man's cock would have been a boon to Creation.

``We underestimate the Empire at our own risk,'' Princess Adeline of
Orne sharply replied.

Rozala inclined her head in thanks and the other young woman offered the
ghost of a smile in return. Adeline had already hinted that she was not
so securely under Amadis' thumb as the prince seemed to believe, through
subtle intermediaries. Of all the royals to have crossed the Stairway,
the Princess of Aequitan was fondest of this one. Adeline had ruled Orne
for less than a year now, ascending to the throne after the
assassination of her brother at the hands of what was speculated to be
the Assassin himself. The princess understood the dangers of tangling
with the Tower better than most. She also despised the First Prince to
the bone. The Augur had, after all, not seen fit to give warning about
her beloved brother's coming death. Cordelia Hasenbach, they were
learning, could kill simply by staying silent.

``It is unseemly for women of your standing to quake at the coming of
the Carrion Lord's bastard,'' Prince Arnaud sneered.

Rozala's lips thinned. There were persistent rumours that the Black
Queen was the villain's illegitimate daughter, though she put no more
stock in those than the speculation she was some distant Fairfax spared
after the Conquest and reared in secret over the decades that followed.

``It is unseemly for a `man' of your standing to be such a relentless
jackass, Arnaud,'' Princess Adeline replied with a lightness that belied
the anger beneath it. ``But you don't hear \emph{us} snipe about it, do
you?''

Rozala sighed almost inaudibly. The Princess of Orne needed to learn to
leash her temper, else they would eat her alive in the Highest Assembly.
An ally this easy to bait was more liability than grace. She would have
intervened to soothe the tempers, but Amadis finally decided to grace
them with his presence. He was not, she saw, alone. The kindly wizened
face of the Grey Pilgrim was a welcome addition to this council, but the
other silhouette flanking the Prince of Iserre was not. Laurence de
Montfort was short and skinny, for so infamous a woman, and her creased
cheeks were showing the mottled spots of creeping age. They did nothing
to detract from the austere presence of the Saint of Swords. The
Princess of Aequitan stiffened, though she forced her shoulders to
loosen before anyone could notice. Not royalty could ever be comfortable
in the presence of the Regicide.

``I do hope my lateness caused no offence,'' Amadis Milenan affably
smiled. ``It occurred to me that an infusion of wisdom to this council
would benefit us all, hence my company.''

The smile was a little too broad, Rozala decided, to be entirely
truthful. Had the heroes strong-armed him into inviting them along? They
had certainly begun wielding their influence more strongly since the
crossing. For all that the Saint was the one who brought sharp
discomfort, it had been the Grey Pilgrim that brought terms back from
the failed attempt at diplomacy in the south. The man was much more
influential than his easy manners suggested.

``We are honoured to be offered seat at his table,'' the Pilgrim smiled,
inclining his head.

``Honoured, yes,'' the Saint drawled, a hard smile splitting her face.

The Regicide had been exceedingly clear about her low esteem for royalty
as a whole, which cast interesting light to the rumours she'd once been
the lover of Klaus Papenheim. It would take someone with stomach as
steady as the Iron Prince's to bed that one, Rozala silently conceded.
For all they knew all there was down there was more swords, though for a
Lycaonese that might just be spice in the wine.

``No offence at all,'' Prince Arnaud smiled brightly. ``We always
welcome the advice of those Chosen by the Heavens.''

Rozala hid her derisive snort behind a sip of wine as the heroes and
their glorious leader took their seats.

``Princess Rozala was expressing worries about Praesi scheming,''
Princess Adeline spoke up.

More to break the heavy silence than anything else, the ruler of
Aequitan suspected. She did not grudge her the distraction.

``Ah,'' the Grey Pilgrim smiled gently. ``Always a subject worthy of
interest, yet I would caution you that it is not Praesi we face. It
would be a mistake, Your Graces, to believe the army to the south
anything but Callowan.''

Rozala disliked the notion of taking military advice from priestly
vagrant, however high his repute, but the circumstances warranted
prudence. It was a villain that led the Army of Callow, and she knew
little of their breed compared to the old man.

``Callowan she may be, but her throne was built on sand,'' Amadis
languidly added. ``Her grasp on the kingdom remains shallow. Duchess
Kegan Iarsmai has already replied to my envoys.''

Rozala hid her surprise. For all of Amadis' swagger, she'd fully
expected the House of Iarsmai to remain aloof from the crusade until a
clear winner could be discerned. The Prince of Iserre's smile broadened
as he looked at her, the unspoken gloating ringing loud.

``Though she will not declare for us openly at the moment, she was
willing to send a detachment of the Watch to join our forces,'' Amadis
revealed. ``They've already begun to sail across the Silver Lake, and I
expect they will swell our ranks in time for battle.''

The Arlesite princess frowned, displeased she'd been cut out of
negotiations involving military matters.

``And how many of the Watch did she pledge?'' she asked.

``A full thousand,'' Amadis said. ``Easily worth thrice that number, if
the old histories are to be believed.''

\emph{And what did you have to promise that Deoraithe fox to get them, I
wonder}? Rozala thought. Amadis Milenan had been rather generous of late
in partitioning the kingdom he expected her to conquer for him.

``You really should have been smacked more often as a child, Amadis,''
the Saint of Swords idly said. ``Gods know a few bruises would have done
wonders for your character.''

The silence in the tent was so absolute it was nearly palpable. Rozala
smothered a very unseemly grin.

``Pardon?'' the Prince of Iserre coldly said.

``You heard me just fine, you repulsive little wart,'' Laurence de
Montfort said. ``Kegan Iarsmai fought a campaign with the Black Queen
less than a year ago and you think that, what? Your viper tongue
befuddled a \emph{Duchess of Daoine}? That house was putting Praesi
heads on pikes back when your ancestors were shitting in their own huts.
She's playing you like a spectacularly dim fiddle.''

Amadis Milenan's face purpled with fury. It was unlikely, Rozala mused
with dark delight, that anyone had insulted him this bluntly even once
in his life. The Grey Pilgrim cleared his throat.

``Laurence,'' he reproached.

The Saint of Swords sighed.

``Fine,'' she said. ``The honourable Prince of Iserre is displaying the
intellectual faculties of an \emph{averagely} dim fiddle.''

The Grey Pilgrim looked pained.

``What my blunt-spoken friend means, Your Grace,'' he intervened, ``is
that Catherine Foundling belongs to a very specific breed of villainy.
The nature of her Bestowal is what my people call a \emph{thresher}. One
who separates the wheat from the chaff. She will earn great enmity, but
also great loyalty. And she has fought by the side of Duchess Kegan
before, against common foe.''

Rozala was honest enough to admit that watching the Prince of Iserre
having to swallow his cold fury to avoid beginning a feud with heroes
was making her evening. Perhaps even her month.

``The Duchess bargained well,'' the prince stiffly said. ``And extracted
great concessions in rights and territory. The Queen of Callow has
naught to offer of equivalent value.''

So, land had been sold. Rozala wondered how far he'd gone. Had Laure
been offered up? Denieralmost certainly, it was the old dagger the
Fairfaxes had kept pointed at Daoine's belly in case the Deoraithe began
talking of independence again. The Princess of Aequitan quietly cleared
her throat, gaining everyone'd attention.

``I'll be blunt,'' she said. ``The Black Queen should scare everyone in
this tent. She has displayed surprising restraint so far, but this is
the same woman who crucified a few hundred mages after the Doom to make
a point. We are cornering her, and she has a reputation for baring her
fangs when cornered.''

Rozala sipped at her wine, drawing out her point in a reminder that in
matters military it was her word that counted most.

``We marched out believing she'd come after the first bait we set out,''
she continued. ``The failure of the trap at Harrow makes it very clear
we were wrong in our assessment. And that is without considering she not
only knew about the overtures to Baron Darlington, but turned that
debacle into an offer of her own. I expected she scares the Duchess a
lot more than we do, at the moment. Any contribution from her is
suspect.''

\emph{I'm not going to let you forget the Darlington failure any time
soon, Amadis}, she thought, smiling at the Prince of Iserre. \emph{So
much for the north rising up behind the Black Queen.}

``Making terms with the Enemy is always a fucking blunder,'' the Saint
of Swords said. ``Mark my words, the moment she feels the noose
tightening the usual horrors are coming out. You should have smoked her
then and there.''

``She spoke truth, Laurence,'' the Grey Pilgrim stated, and there was
iron beneath the mildness. ``Do not gainsay me on this. I find it deeply
shameful that any of us would hesitate at an opportunity to lessen the
bloodbath, no matter the provenance.''

``You've always been soft, Tariq,'' the Saint said. ``The only thing I
agree on with this band of clucking hens is that the east is in need of
a good cleansing. The rot will only spread if we spare the flame. We go
in half-hearted, and you know we'll have to come back in twenty years.
Assuming we're still around.''

Something pale and cold roiled in the Grey Pilgrim's eyes. Rozala felt
the taste of a storm against the roof of her mouth. It unsettled her
enough she spared no irritation for having been called a hen.

``You should know better,'' the hero quietly said, ``than to question
how far I will go to spare this world pain. You, of all people.''

The old woman looked uncomfortable, then chastised. Rozala's eyes
sharpened with interest. Of all the Named gathered under the banner of
her army, these two were known to be first among equals. That they would
quarrel at all had interesting implications. Until now, the politics of
the heroes had been utterly opaque to her save for the fact that the
other Levantines took the Pilgrim's words as sacred writ. All of the
Named had resisted attempts to induce them into a deeper relationship so
far, but if this rift before her was exploitable there were\ldots{}
possibilities to keep in mind. Known ties to a Chosen would silence her
brother's ambitions for good, no matter his schemes.

``Apologies,'' the Saint finally said. ``You know my temper.''

``Like a bear with a bad tooth,'' the Pilgrim fondly said, patting her
hand. ``Already forgotten. We are all worried about the young ones in
the south.''

Princess Adeline cleared her throat daintily.

``Apologies, Chosen,'' she said. ``But if I may ask, are you speaking of
the heroes marching for the Vales?''

``I was under the impression the remaining Calamities were expected to
fold,'' Rozala added warily.

If the Red Flower Vales held, their position up north became exceedingly
precarious. Their supply lines would be effectively impossible to
maintain as soon as they passed Hedges, and the First Prince had
indicated she would be \emph{displeased} if the crusaders turned to
foraging in Callow. The Arlesite princess wasn't going to starve her
army out of fear of offending Hasenbach, but she'd also rather avoid
kicking that nest of wasps for a while still.

``In matters of might, the Carrion Lord is outmatched,'' the Pilgrim
agreed. ``So, we suspect, is the Warlock.''

The Saint snorted inelegantly.

``The Witch is from Brocelian Forest,'' she said. ``What she learned,
she learned from the Gigantes. And that lot ruled the roost while the
Praesi were still busy figuring what cocks are for. She'll pulp his ass
across the valley floor, if they go spell for spell.''

``Young Hanno has already fought the Black Knight once,'' the Pilgrim
smiled. ``He will not repeat previous mistakes. Yet the opponents are
villains grown old, and this is a rare thing for a reason. It will not
be an easy victory.''

``The man is one of Ranger's toys,'' the Saint conceded. ``And that
ornery old bitch plays rough. He won't go down without making a mess.''

The Levantine flicked an amused glance at his companion, but did not
comment.

``We thank you for your guidance,'' Prince Amadis said calmly. ``Yet I
fear we have strayed from the purpose of this council. Princess Malanza
was expressing worries, I believe?''

Rozala nodded.

``It's clear that the Black Queen is expecting to give battle on the
outskirts of the Barony of Hedges,'' she said. ``But I've been getting
reports of her splitting up her host, and that honestly baffles me. We
outnumber her by more than two to one. She should be the one attempting
defeat in detail, not the one offering me that opportunity on a silver
platter.''

``She is barely more than a child,'' Prince Arnaud shrugged. ``Blunders
are to be expected.''

And there went the only Alamans royalty in the tent, breaking his
silence to offer idiocy.

``She's a girl that never lost a battle,'' Prince Amadis warned. ``In
matters of statecraft poor judgement is to be expected, but she is not
unskilled at war.''

``She could have gotten arrogant,'' Rozala admitted. ``It's not uncommon
in undefeated commanders, and that she was confident enough to offer
limiting rules of engagement when so heavily outnumbered is telling. But
I imagine the Exiled Prince and the Summer Court told themselves much
the same right before she ripped out their guts.''

``Though her nature is undeniably warped,'' the Grey Pilgrim said, ``she
struck me as remarkably clear-sighted in some regards. Not a woman prone
to blind mistakes.''

``There's a whole city of dead Callowans that begs to disagree,'' the
Saint drawled.

``It is not only the children of the Heavens that can learn from their
mistakes,'' the Pilgrim chided her. ``She will be wary of being burned
in that manner again.''

``Perhaps she intends to gather her forces through the fairy gates,''
Princess Adeline suggested.

``We know there's a delay for journeying through Arcadia,'' Rozala
replied, shaking her head. ``And she can only take one host at a time.
There are three columns marching towards us. Even if she timed it
perfectly, she'd still have a third of her army in the wrong place when
the battle begins. Which, to put it bluntly, she cannot afford if she
wants even a shadow of a chance of winning.''

``We know the Wild Hunt is sworn to her,'' Prince Arnaud said. ``Perhaps
she \emph{can} make multiple gates.''

``I can't dismiss that possibility out of hand,'' the Princess of
Aequitan agreed. ``But that still begs the question of \emph{why} she'd
split her forces in the first place. She has to know we'll be expecting
gates to appear at our flanks and back when we engage. There would be no
element of surprise, and that is half the advantage to be had with them.
And if our foot moves quickly enough towards the gates, we could even
keep her penned inside Arcadia. It is risking disaster for no gain I can
discern.''

``That is worrying,'' the Grey Pilgrim admitted. ``I must see to the
children, Your Graces, but I will seek guidance from Above on the
matter. Perhaps a meaning to this can be divined.''

Rozala hid her surprise. She'd been under the impression that
future-telling was rare even among heroes, and often too vague to be of
any practical use. The Augur was rumoured to be speaking in tongues half
the time, and that Hasenbach was constantly struggling to turn her
attention to threats instead of weather patterns. If the Grey Pilgrim
could truly discern the workings of Fate, however, this was major
advantage. It was irritating that such a thing would only now be
revealed, but then Rozala was hardly in a position to chide the man for
it.

``We will look forward to hearing your wisdom, Chosen,'' the Princess of
Aequitan said.

The man rose, and bowed deep. He cast a look at the Saint, who smiled
but shook her head. Rozala schooled her face into calm. She had an
inkling that what would follow would not be pleasant. Silence followed
in the wake of the departing Pilgrim, until the Saint of Swords sighed.

``He's a good man, you know,'' Laurence de Montfort said. ``Likes to see
the best in people.''

``A-`` Prince Arnaud began, but he was interrupted.

The Saint raked her fingers across the table, leaving deep gouges in the
wood that no mortal fingers could have made. The sound was deafening, an
ugly grind of steel.

``Shut the fuck up, you insignificant toady,'' the Saint said. ``Now,
Tariq chooses to believe in your moral fibre but I \emph{know} better. I
know the wickedness that you crave, that sweet whisper of earthly power.
There are some among you, even now, that believe holy war can be made
tool of ambition.''

The old woman smiled at them, cold and terrible and utterly indifferent
to their survival.

``You will not disappoint this nice old man,'' she said. ``You will keep
to the terms, and not seek to work around them. And if you seek
otherwise?''

The Saint barked out a harsh laugh.

``You might be under the delusion that the consequences of ripping you
animals to pieces would give me pause,'' she mused. ``Discard that
notion, princelings. The only people I answer to are up Above, and they
exactly what you are made of.''

Laurence de Montfort rose to her feet, shrugging.

``Think of me as the angel on your shoulders,'' she suggested. ``You
know, the one that says `be Good, my children, or I will \emph{fucking
dine on your entrails like an orc}.''

The Saint of Swords smiled at them, wagging a finger.

``I think we have an understanding, don't we?''

No one nodded.

No one needed to.