webcrawl/APGTE/Book-5/tex/Ch-027.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-18-fable}{%
\section{Chapter 18: Fable}\label{chapter-18-fable}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Some acts only have to be committed once to afterwards echo a
threat in your every silence.''}

-- Dread Empress Massacre the First
\end{quote}

The Tyrant's soldiers were killing my people.

The cataphracts, when I'd caught sight of them from miles away, had been
forming up for a night raid. This was war, I reminded myself. Besides,
for all my talk of alliances and bargains with Kairos he remained as
much a foe as a friend. No doubt some scheme was afoot, one that
involved prodding the Fourth Army into moving some way or other for
deeper purpose. Skirmishes against the Levantines, maybe, or to make
certain the Fourth did not encounter one of the League's forces. The
cataphracts were harassing my legionaries, as they had the Third's, not
pulling knives and engaging in struggle to the death. This was no
different than Malicia testing the eastern borders of Callow with
refugees and warbands, like a villainous cat taking its claws to
something to see how it reacted. It would be wisest to chide the
Helikean cavalry, slap them on the wrist and send them off to trouble
someone else. They'd cased their raid when I intervened, hadn't they?
Just the sight of a lone rider had put the charge of sundry four
thousand kataphractoi to an end, and as I my valiant Zombie the Fourth
cantered forward their ranks bent inwards. They were following orders,
obeying one of those fearsome madmen Helikeans had idolized for
centuries. I told myself all this, as I bid my mount to stop, and it was
enough to stay my hand. Then my mind whispered: \emph{the Tyrant's
soldiers are killing your people.}

My fingers clenched, leather gloves creaking. The Mantle of Woe trailing
behind me, stirred by the night's breeze, I watched as a pack of
officers under Helike's own banner rode to the fore of the host. Five of
them, in weather-beaten armour, blades sheathed at their sides. Their
conical, crested helms boasted red ceremonial feathers that jutted like
a splash of blood, and beneath the rim of the steel cap two curved
strips of steel demarcated their eyes. From those a shawl of mail
descended to their chests, the lead officer among them unclasping hers
to reveal a scarred mouth.

``Black Queen,'' the Helikean said in accented Lower Miezan, ``I-''

``Kneel,'' I softly interrupted.

In the silence the followed the word rang like a thunderclap. There was
a pause, the breeze raking its unseen fingers on the carpet of snow
between us. The officers assembled behind her mouthpiece bridled at the
order. Their leader raised a hand.

``We serve the Tyrant of Helike,'' the woman replied. ``And bend before
none other.''

My staff rose, and with a thunderous snap I brought it down against the
wintry ground. The order I had not spoken sounded across the Night like
rippling decree, and under the crescent moon's smile the veil we had
approached under was ripped away. The banner-sigils jutted out like the
masts of a ship in the utterly still sea of Firstborn, fluttering in low
murmurs. Red and black and blue, crisscrossed by strokes of silver and
gold. Among them two stood higher than all the rest. Ochre inlaid with
gold, a rainflower in bloom. \emph{Rumena}. Purple cut by silver, a tree
bearing twin circles unfinished. \emph{Losara.} Twenty thousand drow
stood like statues around Helike's riders, grey skin touched with the
colours of their sigils. Fear ripped through the steel-clad killers
sworn to the Tyrant, like a sudden and brutal shiver.

``Kneel,'' I softly said, ``or Gods be my witness, I'll kill you all.''

Shapes slid across my face, two crows far above gliding far above
passing between the moon's cast and my silhouette. Casting razor-sharp
shadows as the Sisters smiled against my neck, Andronike humming in
approval. She had not forgot the nightmare made of Rochelant, and held
no love for those what would serve its maniacal architect. I found their
leader's pale eyes, circled by steel, and saw fear spread through them
like ink in water. The words that followed were hurried out, and beneath
my notice, even as the soldiers began to dismount.

Under crescent moon four thousand \emph{kataphractoi} knelt in the snow.

``You will stay knelt,'' I said. ``Until I tell you to rise.''

Zombie heeded my will and turned around, leaving at an unhurried trot. I
left them with their knees to the ground, and went to bring my Fourth
Army back into the fold.

---

The cheers began sounding from the palisade when I came within ninety
yards. Behind the wooden fortifications the Fourth Army's camp had lit
up with fire and fervour both, like an anthill boiling over. Torches lit
up, and the wall facing me was pulled open. Within seventy yards I could
make out the twin rows of soldiers assembling to make an avenue of steel
leading deeper into the Fourth's camp. When I reached sixty yards, a
winged shape descended from the sky and landed before me in a geyser of
snow. And\ldots{} wood? What was a post doing -- Zombie the Third,
bright blue eyes shining with glee, whinnied loudly and trotted up to my
side. My lips quirked and I ran my gloved hand down her mane.

``Hello, girl,'' I murmured. ``Missed me, did you?''

The winged horse I had\ldots{} acquired from the Summer Court through
technically blasphemous means sauntered around my current mount, turning
around the back and coming close to affectionately brush against my good
leg.

``You \emph{are} a good girl,'' I praised, patting her neck. ``Unless
you've been eating corpses again, we had a talk about that.''

Zombie the Third neighed, I thought, perhaps a little guiltily.
Godsdamnit, I'd told Hakram just because it was occasionally appropriate
behaviour for orcs didn't meant he could let my \emph{horse} do it. The
look she cast at Zombie the Fourth -- who was a pure necromantic
construct, and so about as sentient as his saddle -- was less than
friendly, too. I cocked an eyebrow.

``Come on,'' I said, patting her one last time for the road. ``We're
headed to camp. Just let me take care of that.''

There'd been a wooden post tied to her bridle, so I leaned forward to
unmake the knot and let it drop. Flanked by my own mount, I resumed my
advance. The Fourth Army wasn't one of my old commands, not at its
source. It had few officers from the original Fifteenth Legion, and
while it'd picked up a few spare tribunes from General Afolabi's
now-disbanded Twelfth the general staff had actually been from General
Istrid's Sixth, the Ironsides -- including the general himself, Bagram.
But that was officers, I thought as I approached the open gates. The
Fourth Army's bones, not the meat. In the rows and rows of faces most I
saw were young and Callowan. Recruits joined before the Tenth Crusade
began, or in the months I'd spent in the Everdark. Those who'd never
known my armies as part of the Empire even in name. Maybe that was why,
when I crossed the gates, swords were bared and raised in salute. A
steel avenue, that old honour granted to the kings and queens of Callow.

``HAIL!''

The word sounded defiantly into the night as my soldiers welcomed me
home. Once upon a time, I thought as the sound washed over me, it would
have been only knights allowed to stand among those rows. \emph{But the
times are changing.} Head high, cloak trialing behind me, I rode to the
end of the alley under the eyes of thousands. At the end, two orcs
awaited. One I knew from the few conversations we'd had during and after
he brought the Sixth into the Army of Callow, General Bagram. The other
had me smiling: Gods, it felt like a century since I'd last seen Hakram.
He was still stupidly tall and large, like the Heavens had given an old
oak leave to walk around. His hand of bone went without glove, in winter
and summer both, but his other -- wait, what? I wasn't sure what baffled
me more, that he'd somehow lost yet another hand or that he'd not
bothered replacing it. I brought Zombie to a halt, his sister matching
him, and met Adjutant's dark eyes with mine before cocking an eyebrow.

``You know, one is understandable,'' I said. ``Happens to the best of
us. But two? That's just careless, Hakram. It's not like you have any
more spares.''

``I suppose my clapping days are over,'' Adjutant thoughtfully replied.
``And I never did take to the theatre.''

There was a pause.

``You made the same damned joke the last time you lost a hand, didn't
you?'' I sighed.

``It's funnier this time,'' he told me. ``You know, because I'm running
out of hands to lose.''

Something like a sob of hysterical laughter almost ripped out of my
throat, but aware of the eyes on us I kept it locked inside. I still
burned with the need to actually hug the bastard, who was showing just
enough fang from one side of the mouth to be implying either a taunt or
mockery. A moment later I cleared my throat and inclined my head at
Bagram.

``General,'' I greeted him.

``Your Majesty,'' he gravelled back, offering a legionary's salute.
``The Fourth Army is yours.''

I glanced back and saw the legionaries still standing with their swords
raised. I supposed it was. Zombie moved under my will, turning to face
them in full, and my staff rose almost of its own accord. Blades began
beating against shield, a ruckus to wake even the dead, and cheers
sounded with them. I glanced meaningfully at Hakram, and after
dismounting I clapped General Bagram's shoulder and leaned close to tell
him I needed to confer with Adjutant. I was led not far from there, to
what I recognized to be Hakram's old campaign tent. I followed in the
orc, limping at a pace. The inside was sparse, as usual, save for the
inevitable piles of scrolls that followed Adjutant like a faithful pack
of hounds. Still, it was warm and well-lit so it would do. I'd barely
passed the folds when I was swept up in arms like tree trunks, hoisted
up off my feet. I laughed and hugged the bastard back, though I slapped
his shoulder for the indignity inherent to holding me up like I was some
little lamb.

``It's good to see you,'' I admitted, when finally the brute put me
down.

``You as well, Catherine,'' he rumbled out. ``It has been much, much too
long.''

``I hear that,'' I muttered.

``Unexpected that you would find us, but decidedly not unwelcome,''
Hakram said. ``The apparitions on the field outside, are they who I
think they are?''

``Drow,'' I confirmed. ``Though they call themselves the Firstborn --
no, don't ask, it's a lot more complex than I feel like getting into.''

The orc hacked out a pleased laugh.

``You brought the drow to the surface,'' Hakram said, grinning. ``First
time they came up in force in centuries. Gods be sated, you actually did
it -- and so many. There must be at least fifteen thousand out there.''

``Twenty,'' I corrected. ``The entire expedition in Iserre is fifty
thousand strong, though they have their issues. They're headed your way,
should be there before dawn. The Third Army got caught down in Sarcella
by the Dominion, but they made it out after losing some skin. They're
with the rest of the drow.''

``The Priestess of Night is our ally, then?'' Adjutant asked.

``They're called Sve Noc,'' I said. ``And they're, well, goddesses. More
or less.''

``You made an alliance with \emph{goddesses},'' Hakram said.

``In a manner of speaking,'' I said. ``You're talking to the current
high priestess of Night. Alliance was made, with some strings, but the
fifty thousand are here to back us.''

Hakram's brow rose.

``The high priestess,'' he repeated. ``Of drow religion. A religion of
drow. Presumably for drow. Which, unless I am mistaken, you are not.''

``That's the one,'' I lightly replied.

``What happened to the \emph{last} high priestess?'' he asked.

``There wasn't one.''

``And you talked goddesses into this how?''

``I asked real nice,'' I smiled winningly. ``The trick was doing it
twice.''

``Cat, did you pull a knife on goddesses?'' Adjutant sighed.

``Of course not,'' I replied, offended and technically even saying the
truth.

The orc stared at me, saying nothing.

``We have an understanding,'' I said, a tad defensively. ``You wouldn't
understand, you're not religious.''

``I'm not going to touch that without a bottle on the table and half a
day to waste,'' Hakram muttered.

I snorted.

``You're one to talk,'' I said. ``What happened to your hand? Tell me
you weren't just struck with a sharp and urgent need for symmetry.''

``Necessary sacrifice,'' Adjutant said. ``You'll understand when you
meet with Vivienne.''

My brow rose.

``Most likely, yes,'' I said. ``But you're going to tell me anyway.''

Flash of teeth, which I identified as implying sheepishness.

``It'll be a long conversation,'' Hakram said.

I studied him closely. I could press further, but it wasn't needed as
far as I knew. And if it was, I trusted he would have told me.

``It'll wait for that bottle with half a day, then,'' I said. ``Talk to
me about Masego. I know everything Robber knows, but he said you'd have
more.''

``He knows more than someone of his rank should, though that is nothing
new,'' Adjutant said. ``If you're looking for a location, we do not have
it. He was seen in the fields west of the Blessed Isle, but we haven't
caught sight of him said.''

I frowned.

``But?''

``Before we took the gate into Arcadia,'' Hakram said. ``There was a
report through the Observatory -- the last we ever got. Liesse is
gone.''

``The ruins?'' I said. ``They were destroyed?''

``Gone,'' the orc said. ``As in moved. And we don't know how, or
where.''

My reflex was to reply that was impossible, especially given the
ridiculously vicious wards I'd had put around the still very much
dangerous ruins, but then I remembered \emph{who} had put those up
specifically.

``You think he took the city somehow,'' I said.

``I think he's not in his right mind, since Thalassina,'' Hakram
grimaced. ``And that he got his hands on the broken shards of the single
most dangerous magical weapon this continent has seen since Triumphant's
day. For what purpose, I can only guess.''

Well, \emph{fuck}. This was still salvageable, I had Akua around and
she'd know how that monstrosity worked better than anyone -- she was,
after all, its architect. But until we got a read on how Masego was
moving around, this was a sword hanging above someone's head. Whose
there was no real way to know, if the disaster at Thalassina had
affected Hierophant's mind somehow.

``We need to find him,'' I said. ``\emph{Quickly}. Do you have any idea
what happened to the Observatory?''

``Nothing concrete, same as the gates going wild. We've got a dozen
running theories, but the mages keep poking holes in each other's,''
Adjutant admitted. ``About a third of them insist it's to do with the
way scrying is blocked in Iserre, the rest are in agreement they are
entirely different problems with no relation.''

It was, I thought, grim irony that the person most likely to give us an
answer about what was going on was the one we needed the Observatory to
look for.

``I'll see what Akua can figure out, but she'll only have so much time
to spare,'' I said. ``I have her working on something else.''

He nodded.

``Archer's safe?''

``Working through some things,'' I said. ``It got\ldots{} bad down
there, Hakram. She had a close call.''

I could see his chops move as he ran his tongue against his fangs, the
cogs in his head turning as he weighed whether or not now was the right
time to ask.

``Bottle and half a day,'' Adjutant finally echoed.

I conceded with a nod.

``We need to talk with General Bagram,'' I said. ``Lay down some ground
rules about the drow, prepare for the Third's arrival. I'll want to know
about the state of the Fourth, too.''

``He'll be waiting,'' Hakram said.

``Then let's go,'' I sighed. ``We're wasting moonlight.''

``You have four thousand surrendered cataphracts outside, Catherine,''
he reminded me. ``The situation needs seeing to.''

``Not surrendered,'' I said. ``I neither offered nor asked. They're
considering their sins, that's all.''

Adjutant's dark eyes scrutinized my face.

``You're thinking of killing them,'' the orc said.

I clenched my fingers, then unclenched them.

``Some,'' I admitted. ``If I let them go today, they're a blade back in
the Tyrant's armory tomorrow.''

``Are we to break entirely with the League, then?'' he asked.

I grimaced.

``No,'' I admitted. ``There are some interests in alignment.''

``Then you cannot commit slaughter,'' Hakram said.

``Unless you have a lot more supplies than the Third, we can't keep them
prisoner either,'' I flatly said. ``Four thousand men and four thousand
horses. I suppose we could butcher the horses for meat, but the
soldiers? Given what's out there, we don't have the manpower for the
guards or the food to spare. Not without shaving it much too close for
comfort.''

``I fought those riders, Catherine,'' Adjutant said. ``So did the
Fourth. And I can assure you, there is no love between us. Not even the
fondness of respected foes. But we cannot butcher prisoners of war.''

``Butchery? Slight and price, Hakram. One for one,'' I said. ``You have
lists of dead, lost to their attacks. So did the Third. I will not let
this go \emph{unanswered}.''

``I wouldn't ask you to,'' Hakram said.

The orc let out a long breath.

``I could tell you that this would set a dangerous precedent,'' Adjutant
said. ``That we must be taken as law-abiding actors, if the Liesse
Accords are to be signed and held. I could even say that a massacre
tonight will be matched by the Tyrant when opportunity comes for him,
and we both know it will.''

``But,'' I said.

My closest friend in the world looked me in the eye.

``Weren't we better than this, when we started?'' Hakram softly asked.

I did not answer him on the way to General Bagram's tent. I still had
not, after those talks were done, when I headed back into the snows.

---

They'd stayed kneeling.

A few had tried to run, deciding to die gloriously with a blade in hand,
and their pulped flesh had been splattered across the snow by the Mighty
among my host. The rest had remained knelt in the cold and the dark,
waiting for the judgement that was to fall upon their heads. They
shivered and trembled, for the wind had not grown gentler in my absence,
but even as their legs had begun to ache and their fingers had grown
rigid for the chill the cataphracts of Helike had endured. Some portion
admired them for it, but it was not so large that it was not drowned out
by the anger still fuming in my bones. And even that admiration was
tainted, for valour in the service of the likes of Kairos Theodosian
could only be abused. The Firstborn parted for me without a word as I
tread across the snows, come to meet the five officers who had meant to
bargain with me. They had withstood their wait, I found, and softly five
feathery streaks of red still rose and fell with the breath of the
soldiers. My staff touched the ground with measured beat as I limped to
them, and when I halted I felt their gazes turn to me. It was the leader
among them I turned my own eye to, the woman who'd spoken.

``Your name?'' I asked.

``Pallas,'' she said. ``I am a general of Helike.''

Letting the agony skitter across my leg, I leaned against my staff and
knelt to match her height. I glimpsed vivid pale eyes that lingered
between grey and blue, set on a tanned face that was younger than I had
thought. Not so young she had not lived, I thought, and not so young
that she should not have known better.

``Nine hundred and thirty two,'' I said. ``That is how many of my men
yours have killed, between the tallies of the Third and the Fourth.''

``They fought well,'' Pallas simply said. ``And bravely.''

``They died bravely too,'' I said, tone sharpening.

I saw in her face, then, the expectance of the blow. Of sudden and
merciless death.

``I had thought to kill that many of you,'' I pensively said. ``And then
another as well, for the remembrance.''

``You would take us all instead, then?'' Pallas calmly asked. ``If that
is so, we will not die kneeling. Vainglorious be our pride, Black Queen,
we are \emph{kataphractoi} of Helike. We do not meet slaughter meekly.''

Cataphracts of Helike, I thought. Legionaries of Praes, knights of
Callow, fantassins of Procer. The names changed, and the lands matched
to them, but in the end it wasn't it the same defiant promise? \emph{We
are people}, it said. \emph{You can kill us, but you cannot make us less
than that.} Funny, wasn't it? How you could offer soldiers praise and a
title and they'd make of it something to make the world quake. Not the
kind of funny that made you smile, but funny nonetheless.

``No,'' I said. ``The man that serves as my better nature waits in camp,
and though his kind knows little of mercy he asked it of me all the
same.''

``Mercy,'' General Pallas told me, ``will not change our oaths.''

In that moment I was no longer looking at a woman kneeling in the snow:
it was Helike's own grim visage looking back at me, that ancient
city-state that had fought Praes and Procer at their peaks and walked
away unbowed. And it had done so on the back of men and women just like
the one facing me. Iron-wrought souls gathered to a Tyrant's banner, the
victors of a hundred fields.

``We serve a Theodosian, Queen of Callow,'' Pallas of Helike said, ``We
do not flinch from doom nor grave, under that banner -- \emph{or
anything else}.''

\emph{I could take that certainty from you}, I thought, \emph{easy as
breathing. Of all my teachers the one who knew least of fear cowed all
of Callow with it, and I have since witnessed sights that would have him
pale.} And part of me wanted to, because nine hundred and thirty two
legionaries were dead at their hands. And perhaps these cataphracts were
brave and skilled and loyal, but they were treating death as a game
while dancing to the Tyrant's tune -- and even now remained proud of
that truth. I wouldn't even need to speak a word in Crepuscular, to see
it all done: under the moon's gaze, when it came to weaving power not
even the Tomb-Maker was my match in raw strength. A mere four thousand,
kneeling? It would be, as I had thought, easy as breathing. And that
gave me pause, because my leg \emph{stung} and I still remembered the
sky opening at the Battle of the Camps and sending down death at
impotent Procerans. Some nights I wondered if part of the reason my
father had refrained from embracing the paths to power that were a
villain's due was because he was afraid of what he might \emph{do} with
it. The kind of person it made you, to look at four thousand soldiers
and know that your own hand could slay them in the span of a breath. The
kind of person it made you, to go through with it. Hadn't it always been
the tragedy of Creation that might ever went to the people least
deserving of it? That I could not change, not truly. But I could, at
least, act like I was not the Dead King incipient. Like I still
remembered what it was like, to laugh and breathe and hurt -- what it
meant, to snuff out those same things.

``There was once a man, to the far east,'' I quietly told Pallas. ``He
was a killer among killers, and among that red number there were none
more loathsome. So when he claimed the Tower, \emph{Foul} was the title
he took. Third of his name, and last.''

I smiled.

``In the Wasteland they remember him a vainglorious failure, for when he
led his armies west the Kingdom of Daoine crushed them all and sent his
limbless body back to Ater, along with the head of ever highborn in his
host,'' I said. ``Of his duel with the Commander of the Watch and the
valour that saw the Deoraithe prevail I could tell you much, but what
would it mean to you?''

I tapped my fingers against my staff, hearing the steady beat of
\emph{do not forget} along with the pulsing pain of my leg.

``It is the years after I'll tell you a story about,'' I said. ``You
see, Foul did not long survive his return. His successor cared nothing
for the man, but there were rules to observe. Two bounties were offered.
The first for the head of any Commander, only once claimed in the
history of Praes. The second, though? It was for two fingers.''

I leaned closer, voice almost a whisper.

``The one that came after was titled \emph{Vile}, and of that epiteth
proved well-deserving, but for all that he was not without cleverness,''
I said. ``It was longbows on a wall, that broke his predecessor and so
he put coin to unmaking the first of these two. For four centuries
following, anyone bringing back the severed index and middle fingers of
a Deoraithe was rewarded in gold.''

Pallas of Helike went very, very still.

``Yeah, I figured you'd understand,'' I said. ``You're an archer
yourself. But a snip of the knife and all that skill, all those
years\ldots{} up in smoke. Can't pull back the string without those, can
you?''

``And this,'' General Pallas replied, ``is the span of your
\emph{mercy}?''

``I never claimed my kind of tyranny to be deserving of capital
letter,'' I said. ``So you'll keep the fingers, Pallas. But they will be
broken, by your own hands, and with them I take every fucking thing that
allows you to call yourself \emph{kataphraktoi}.''

The woman's eyes widened in surprise and anger.

``You cannot-'' she began.

``Be silent,'' I hissed. ``You ride around slaying my soldiers and
abetting a madman's madness when the King of Death is sinking his teeth
in the world. You do not get to be indignant, Pallas of Helike. You're a
worm in the flesh, and if neither you nor your master can be trusted not
to act as the ushers of the end times then you will have to be
\emph{disciplined}.''

I rose to my feet, leaning on ebony, and glared down.

``You came here as cataphracts,'' I said. ``And here will stay your
horses and arms and armour. Not a single one of you will leave this
place with as much as a butter knife.''

Breathing out, I met pale eyes and let the slightest part of the fury I
still felt slip into my gaze.

``Walk back to your Theodosian, General Pallas,'' I said. ``And give him
warning from the Black Queen -- if he ever pulls anything like this on
my people again, there's room for another soul on my cloak.''

In the sky far above crows cawed, the sound of it eerily like laughter.