webcrawl/APGTE/Book-6/out/Ch-000.md.tex

\hypertarget{prologue}{%
\chapter*{Prologue}\label{prologue}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{prologue}} \chaptermark{Prologue}

\epigraph{``And so Dread Emperor Heinous thus addressed his court: `Are we
not rulers of devils and dead, princes among usurpers? Why then should
we suffer another to call himself king of our demesne?' All agreed in
this, and so war was declared upon Keter.''}{Extract from the Scroll of Vainglory, thirty-ninth of the Secret
Histories of Praes (destroyed by order of Dread Empress Maleficent II,
only partial texts remain)}



They'd had three months of reprieve, to the day.

Prince Otto Reitzenberg, who his people yet called Redcrown, had
prepared for the hour the truce would end without pause or rest. He'd
slept as little as he could, and when he did he'd found himself plagued
by nightmares. Unable to meet the solemn and silent faces of his
sisters, of his father, of the all the Reitzenbergs that'd died keeping
dawn from failing for one more night as they stared at him unblinking.
All the shades he had come so close to failing. The Morgentor, the last
fortress still in the hands of the living in Twilight's Pass, had been
mere weeks away from falling when the Black Queen had tricked a truce
out of the Enemy. Otto Redcrown, last of his line, had done all he could
to keep the Dead penned up in the pass but the doom of his people had
been writ in the stars. Yet for this inadequacy he had somehow been
rewarded with three more months to prepare, and knowing the end was
coming the Prince of Bremen had worked himself \emph{raw}.

Frederic at his side, they'd squeezed the full worth out of every
heartbeat. Soldiers allowed to rest, yes, but some put to work other
than war. Supply lines were opened anew and refurbished, wagons filled
with the necessities of war. First Prince Cordelia herself secured gold
and foodstuffs and steel, striking deals with half the continent to
secure supplies and reinforcements. She had not forgot, Otto had been
moved to see. Rhenia's favourite daughter had not come home when Keter
marched, but never once had she forgot her kin. She'd stayed south to
make sure the south would come to their aid, that famously unbending
Hasenbach backbone lent to all Procer. Just as importantly, the young
and the old of Lycaonese lands had been sent south to safety under the
protection of Frederic's cousin and heiress in Lyonis when the dead
ceased their raiding into the lowlands. The future of his people was now
safeguarded under the kin of his friend. Then a hard choice had been
posed to Otto, as was so often the way in these times.

Should he send all soldiers save those holding the Morgentor into
northern Lyonis, to ready the fight there for when Twilight's Pass fell
and the Lycaonese lowlands followed, or should every sword in the land
be brought to Morning's Gate to spit one last defiance in the Enemy's
eye? It had burned him to even consider it, but he must see to the
future of his people beyond the cast of pride. Yet he'd been a fool,
Otto realized the first time a warband of haggard souls bearing
ill-fitting mail and hard eyes marched into the sprawling camp at the
bottom of the Morgentor. They had come. Alone and in pairs, in bands of
twenty or a hundred. Through wind and snow and treacherous mountain
paths. Farmers and miners and shepherds, innkeepers and drapers, scribes
and carpenters and a hundred other things. Yet Lycaonese all, so they
came wearing the steel handed down families since the days of the Iron
Kings and there would be no talk of \emph{retreat}.

Twilight's Pass was the last lock on the door that might keep the Dead
King from devouring the world, and so it would hold until there were
none left to hold it. Their numbers had swelled with every band of
volunteers, to almost one hundred thousand, and though the Enemy's might
was without question, the Morgentor was no less mighty a fortress. It
would hold, Otto Redcrown had sworn. It would hold whatever might come.
They had prepared, sharpened their steel, and they stood atop perhaps
the second finest fortifications in all Calernia -- only the cliff-city
of Rhenia or Keter itself might claim to surpass Morning's Gate, now
that Hannoven had fallen. Odds were never good, against the Dead King,
but this was perhaps the finest they'd been in Otto's lifetime.

Then of the three tower-fortresses of the Morgentor, the Three Peaks,
they lost two on the first day.

If Frederic had not come into his Choosing they might have lost the
third tower as well, the central one, and that would have been a
disaster there'd be no recovering from. The Kingfisher Prince had held a
buckling line by sheer dint of \emph{refusing to die} and reclaimed the
top of the walls from the Enemy long enough to set everything aflame
with pitch. It'd cut off the dead within the fallen towers from steady
reinforcements long enough to take them back as well, though it'd meant
twelve hours of bloody uphill fighting. Otto Redcrown had scraped
together an army of one hundred thousand, his people assembled from
every corner of Lycaonese lands, and on the first day of the Dead's
resumed offensive he had lost near twenty thousand of them. The
Reitzenberg would have wept at that, if there were any tears in him left
to shed, but there were none. All there was left was duty, and so he let
duty devour him whole.

The Dead came and Otto Redcrown met them with steel and fire
unrelenting. When half an army of ghouls crawled up icy walls like they
were treading open road, massive iron scythes were freed to swing
through the lot of them. When flocks of winged abominations dropped down
like a flood of locusts, they were dragged down with nets and kept there
for the mages to scour in flame. Plague-seeding rats, clouds of poison,
even a rain of fire: every night the Enemy tried a fresh devilry and the
last of the Reitzenberg grit his teeth before standing his ground. The
days belonged to Frederic but the nights were his, though as the siege
continued time became meaningless. There was only the sea of death
lapping at the walls, the relentless assaults through every hour of
every day. And though the cracks were spreading through the army, the
fault lines of terror and sleeplessness and a fight that could not truly
be won, still every dusk and dawn soldiers climbed up the stairs to
fight for the ramparts of the Morgentor.

It was an honourable way to die, the Prince of Bremen had decided. If
the days of the Lycaonese were fated to end, Otto thought, let them end
with the last of them standing straight-backed in the Enemy's way. He'd
been sleeping for barely three hours when he was brought out of a
forming nightmare, shaken awake in his cot at the bottom of the
Herzhaupt, and though bone-tired and bleary-eyed the Prince of Bremen
rose without protest. The captain that had come for him, one of
Frederic's men, awaited outside and bowed low when Otto emerged with his
armour already being strapped tight.

``Which peak is falling?'' Otto Redcrown bluntly asked.

There were not many reasons why he'd be woken now, and so soon after
going to rest besides.

``Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but it is quite the opposite,'' the
captain replied, bowing again. ``We have reinforcements.''

The dark-haired prince blinked in surprise. It could not have been
another warband of his people drifting in: it still happened every few
days, though the gap was spreading as time passed, and was not so
unusual as to require him being awoken.

``Who?'' he asked, then added, ``and where's Prince Frederic?''

``Awaiting you at the Prinztopf so that you might greet them together,
Your Grace,'' the captain replied. ``And the simple answer would be that
they are\ldots{} from the Grand Alliance.''

Clapping the man on the back, Otto wasted no more time on quibbling. He
trusted Frederic Goethal not to have ordered him roused without good
reason, though it had taken some convincing before the Alamans prince
was sold on `obtaining a rare bottle of wine and wanting to share it'
not being one of these. An escort of sworn swords followed him without a
word as he headed towards the massive camp raised in the shadow of the
Three Peaks, as they did everywhere since a Revenant had been sent to
claim his head as he slept. Frederic was not difficult to find, as the
man surrounded by the usual swarm of courtiers. Otto could not muster
even a speck of contempt for these, however, for though their silks and
\emph{bon mots} were trying they belonged to men and women he'd once
seen savagely fight their way through two beorns and a crippled Revenant
merely to snatch the banner carried by the latter. It'd emerged three
days later as a dishwashing rag in the Ostenhaupt kitchens, for the
Alamans were making a game of finding the most insulting use possible
for the Dead King's banners.

They were mad one and all, which was undoubtedly why the rest of the
host had grown so fond of them.

``Otto, my friend!'' Prince Frederic Goethal of Brus greeted them. ``It
has been too long since we shared daylight.''

The clasped arms, though Frederic's insistence on cheek-kissing as they
did remained just as unsettling as it'd been the first time the Prince
of Bremen was subjected to it.

``Your man was vague when I asked who's come,'' Otto said.

``I can understand why,'' the Prince of Brus replied, sounding amused.
``None of the etiquette we've been taught applies here.''

They left the large iron-reinforced tent soldiers called the Prinztopf
-- the prince pot, it meant, for it was where they held councils in camp
and the odd shape of the tent was evocative -- behind them and Otto
allowed himself to be led, enjoying the warmth of the spring sun on his
skin. When they found their guests, the reason why the Alamans were at
such loss was made evident. Of the five people in the tent they'd
entered, only three where human and only one was Proceran. The gold and
white robes of the Holies were not unknown ever this far north.

``His Grace, Prince Otto Reitzenberg of Bremen, styled the Redcrown,''
Frederic introduced him in Chantant.

``Prince Frederic of Brus,'' Otto said, returning the favour in the
same. ``Chosen. The Kingfisher Prince. We share command here.''

``I am-'' the priest began, but was immediately interrupted.

``One of the idiots who figured overthrowing Hasenbach was a good
idea,'' the old woman with painted face said. ``You've been sent here to
die by Keter instead of noose, Proceran, no one cares about your name. I
am Lady Itima Ifriqui of Vaccei. My Blood is that of the Vengeful
Brigand and I bring ten thousand warriors. I am told your people have
been struggling with raids on your supply lines, coming down from
Hocheben Heights.''

She grinned, and it was not a pleasant sight.

``I have come to lend my expertise in such matters, Procerans,'' Lady
Itima said.

The stunning redhead in good armour that was standing by the pair of
goblins looked faintly amused but passed no comment before introducing
herself.

``Special Tribune Kilian of the Green Stretch, Army of Callow,'' she
said, her Chantant strangely accented. ``By the order of my queen I
bring twenty mage lines, including some of our foremost warding and
scrying specialists. I've been tasked with ensuring the Morgentor is
both warded up to Callowan standard and brought into the Grand Alliance
scrying relay system.''

She was in the Black Queen's service? He would not have guessed at a
look.

``We are most thankful for your assistance,'' Prince Frederic said.
``Though it appears introductions are not yet complete?''

One of the goblins, Otto saw, was scribbling with a charcoal pen on
parchment. The other one spoke for it, voice narrowly revealing it was
male even though it was the smaller of the two.

``Special Tribune Robber,'' the goblin introduced himself, malevolently
grinning. ``I'm told you folk could benefit from a little sabotage of
the opposition. As it happens, I'm not unfamiliar with-''

``Sapper-General Pickler,'' the other goblin interrupted, revealing
herself female. ``I'm told some cretin talked you lot in using dwarven
engines for the defence of your fortresses.''

``We make some defences of our own,'' Prince Otto replied, unmoved by
the rudeness. ``Though few proper engines.''

``Good, that'll make useful hands to borrow,'' Sapper-General Pickler
said, sounding approving. ``I've been tasked with raising your siege
capacity to something that wouldn't make a goblin simpleton weep as well
as crafting apparatuses specifically to deal with the creatures you've
named `wyrms' and `beorns'.''

Frederic looked uncomfortable, though he was too polite to grimace. His
people, especially the highborn, were taught that even subtly referring
to coin in conversation was quite crude.

``Even with our current loans, we don't have the coin to afford this,''
Otto frankly told the goblin general.

``Congratulations,'' the goblin replied, ``as per arrangements struck
with the First Prince of Procer, you've been granted conditional loans
by the crown of Callow over this matter.''

The Prince of Bremen blinked.

``And what conditions would these be?'' he asked.

``\emph{Is this going to be useful}?'' Sapper-General Pickler grinned,
revealing rows and rows of needle-like teeth.

Otto Redcrown, last of the House of Reitzenberg, grinned back. Oh, this
would do. This would do nicely indeed.

---

Rozala would never grow to like Gaspard Langevin, she mused as she
watched the growing shape of the man's capital in the distance.

The Prince of Cleves was prickly, of resentful temper yet swift to offer
insult himself, and seemingly convinced that the ancient beginnings of
his line meant that he belonged to a sort of nobility within nobility.
The Princess of Aequitan knew well her histories and had even, as a
youth, snuck in a reading of Princess Eliza Alaguer's ever contentious
\emph{The Labyrinth Empire} so she'd been darkly amused to learn of
this. After all, most of the ancient Alamans tribes would have been
appalled at the very notion of nobility: tribes elected their
chieftains, whose authority was even then shared with the tribe's high
priest or priestess of the Hallowed. It was her own Arlesite forbears
who'd brought princely rule to the Principate, as before the founding of
Procer the greatest of the fortress-holding \emph{reales} had already
come to exact oaths of fealty from their lesser kindred -- and so
arguably become the first princes and princesses as the word was
understood in modern parlance.

Yet these days it was the Alamans that orated of ancient blood, while
Arlesites had been taught the virtues of bringing in the fresh sort onto
thrones by the constant warfare on the southern and eastern borders.
Rozala's own line, the Malanzas, had not always been royalty. It'd been
great victories in Levant and a ruthless streak at home that saw them
rise to bear a crown when the previous ruling line of Aequitan grew
weak. That `lowly' origin was no secret, and so part of the reason that
as far as the Prince of Cleves was concerned Rozala Malanza was still
more a general than princess. It was no surprise that during the Great
War his principality had supported the bid of Princess Constance of
Aisne instead of Rozala's own mother. Still, for all the disdain they
shared for each other -- only sharpened by Prince Gaspard's personal and
political antipathy to the faction Prince Amadis had formed in the
Highest Assembly, of which Rozala had openly been part before rising to
command it -- they were well-bred enough to remain cordial.

To his honour, Prince Gaspard had never once been sparing nor stingy in
supporting the armies that had come to fight in the defence of Cleves.
Though the man rarely took the field himself, he'd charged his eldest
son and heir with command of his army as well as bought the service of
every fantassin company north of Cantal not already under contract.
Between this and the supplies being brought into Cleves the prince had
gone deeply into debt, though he was keeping up appearances with
admirable Alamans aplomb. He should be able to dig himself out of the
pit, after the war. Cordelia Hasenbach had wrought some sort of
financial wizardry that'd greatly lessen the debt burdens incurred
defending Procer. Something about bundling together the debts of many
principalities and slicing that mixed greater debt apart before selling
the slices to the Merchant Lords and banks of Mercantis, and promised
yet more aid to come. Her mind was drifting once again, the Princess of
Aequitan realized.

Perhaps it was only to be expected. The Twilight Ways invited deep
reflections, she felt, the eternal starry night sky somehow giving an
impression of solitude even when one was surrounded by thousands. Even
two days out of those eldritch paths Rozala's mood and that of the
forces under her command remained rather restrained. For some, like the
princess herself, the disposition had lingered at the thought that after
witnessing fresh horrors south they were now returning to the familiar
ones of Cleves. The dark-haired princess had not been able to sleep on a
cot since leaving the Ways, unwilling to let herself be unconscious
without being \emph{certain} that digging beneath would wake her. For
others, though, it would be the first fresh taste of what war against
the Dead King looked like. Rozala was pleased to have gotten Lord Yannu
Marave when the Levantines armies were split between fronts, and not
only for the heavy infantry the Lord of Alava brought with him: his
cool, calculating manner would serve him well when the terror began. The
other allies she was bringing to Cleves were harder to read, not that
the Princess of Aequitan was all that inclined to try: sometimes she was
almost as wary of them as the Dead.

Forcing herself to attend to the present instead of sinking into her
thoughts again -- anything to avoid remembering the sound of digging,
\emph{digging} beneath her feet, which she sometimes still heard even
though she was hearing nothing of the sort -- the Princess of Aequitan
spurred on her horse forward and her mounted escorts followed. Clevans
called the sparsely paved road beneath the hooves of her horse \emph{la
route aux chandelles}, the candle road, because of the stone markers on
the side of it: each had been set down at the length it would take for a
candle to melt from the last marker, allowing travellers and merchants
to gauge how long they had left before reaching the capital. It linked
the city to the southern walled town of Jurivan, itself a destination
for roads coming out of Brabant and Lyonis, and so was rightfully seen
as the trade artery of the principality. It was also the largest road in
Cleves, made so that three wagons at once could use it, one of the
reasons Rozala had chosen it for the path of her armies.

The last stretch of the candle road was nearly flat ground until the
foot of the capital itself was reached, if flanked by a low plateau to
the east, and so the Princess of Aequitan was not surprised when ahead
she saw tall banners and a company of riders heading towards her. Prince
Gaspard had been warned of her coming by scrying ritual, and by the
looks of the tallest banner had come out to greet her himself. The pale
unicorn on azure, crowned by a six-petalled flower -- one petal for
every crusade in which a ruling Langevin had personally fought -- was
the Prince of Cleves' personal banner, which meant he was of the
approaching company. Reining in her horse, the dark-haired Arlesite
slowed until she could easily turn back. It would be impolitic of her to
meet with the Prince of Cleves without bringing along the other two
generals of this grand coalition of theirs. Lord Yannu was not difficult
to find, for the Levantine lord was himself riding out to meet her, and
so was the natural beginning.

``Princess Rozala,'' the Lord of Alava greeted her, reining in his
horse.

``Lord Yannu,'' the Princess of Aequitan replied with a nod. ``Our host
rides out to meet us.''

``Armies have a way of commanding courtesy,'' the large man bluntly
said.

It was true enough, though rather uncouth to voice it.

``My outriders on the left flank have lost sight of our friends,''
Rozala admitted. ``I don't suppose yours had sharper eyes?''

``Somewhere in the hills to the west is the most I can give you,'' Yannu
Marave said. ``They've proved arduous to follow.''

Then the two of them would proceed without their third peer, the
dark-haired woman decided. Lapses in etiquette were unlikely to matter
much to that lot regardless. The two aristocrats waited for their honour
guards to gather before riding out together, going down the road at a
brisk trot. They were met by the sound of drums and flutes playing the
stirring tune of the Roving Minstrel's famous \emph{Marching on Keter},
the banner of the Langevins of Cleves flying high with those of the
lesser highborn beneath. Prince Gaspard himself brought his horse out
ahead and took the initiative to greet them.

``Your Grace,'' Gaspard Langevin said, meeting Rozala's eyes and bowing.
``It is a pleasure to see you returned to Cleves.''

``Our work here is not yet finished,'' Rozala Malanza said. ``I look
forward to keeping your council once more, Your Grace.''

And even though she held no love for the man that courtesy had not been
entirely untrue. For all his pettier traits, Gaspard Langevin was an
able man. Rozala would rather take council from a man she disliked but
respected than the opposite.

``It has been one hundred and twelve years since one of the Champion's
Blood has last honoured Cleves by being a guest, Lord Marave,'' Prince
Gaspard continued. ``I am pleased to end this unfortunate course
today.''

``The Dominion honours its oaths,'' Lord Yannu replied in his very good
Chantant. ``War on Keter, war to the knife.''

The Prince of Cleves inclined his head in further thanks, not having
been given much to work with. Rozala was dimly amused, for once she had
also found it necessary to adapt to the bluntness of the Levantines in
such matters.

``I was given to understand,'' the Prince of Cleves delicately
continued, ``that there would be a third.''

``It is so,'' Princess Rozala agreed. ``Though General Rumena-''

``Can speak for itself.''

Rumena the Tomb-Maker -- and oh, that even the Black Queen named it this
has been enough to make Rozala \emph{very} wary -- was the sole visibly
old drow the dark-eyed princess had ever seen. Though tall it had grown
stooped and its skin deeply creased, disdaining weapons and attired in a
long belted tunic of obsidian rings not unlike chain mail. Its long hair
was pure white and its eyes a shade of silver that seemed almost blue in
some lights. At the Graveyard, that drow had scored a draw against the
Regicide without even using a blade. Now none of the startled riders,
many of which now reached for their blades, had even noticed it
approaching. It was as if it had been spat out by the rocks, without
warning.

``You have corpses wandering your lands, Unicorn Prince,'' General
Rumena continued, its Chantant eerily good.

Given how the drow were rumoured to learn such things, the fact that the
old monster had a distinct Bayeux accent was distressing.

``Well met, General Rumena of the Empire Ever Dark,'' Prince Gaspard
said with what she deemed to be remarkable poise. ``You speak truly.
Keter has found unseen paths from the coast and warbands now wander the
land.''

``Rest easy, Unicorn Prince,'' General Rumena grinned. ``Now so do
\emph{we}.''

Lord Yannu let out a bark of appreciative laughter. Princess Rozala
Malanza met the eyes of the ruler of Cleves when he hesitantly turned to
her and inclined her head. \emph{Monsters, Gaspard, make no mistake},
she tried to silently convey. \emph{They are monsters. And Gods forgive
us all, but Keter will rue the day they lent their fangs to the cause of
our survival.}

---

Prince Klaus Papenheim spat into the melting snow, abandoning the reins
of his mount to wipe the wetness from his lips after. Ratbiter was
placid horse for a Bremen \emph{stampfen}, to his old rider at least,
and so he'd not taken to misbehaving even after the arm Klaus lost in
the fall of Hainaut had made him a clumsier horseman. Leaning against
his stirrups to remain straight-backed, the Prince of Hannoven -- prince
of ruins, ghosts and exiles these days -- unclasped his helmet and
ripped it off before wedging it into the crook of his arm. Sweats-soaked
hair slipped down onto his brow and the old man let out an exhausted
breath before mastering himself.

The day was coming to an end, but that would bring no relief: in the
darkness his soldiers would slow and stumble, exhausted and blind. The
dead would not share those weaknesses, and relentlessly pursue so that
dawn would find half his host had been slaughtered whimpering in the
dark. It was a favoured tactic of the Enemy, the reason his ancestors
had taken to raising walls and fortresses instead of meeting the Dead on
the field. Unlike the ratlings, who were best met and broken on prepared
killing grounds before the could cross the rivers and slip into the
Hannoven lowlands, the Dead King's legions were always risky to confront
in open battle.

All it took was for the living to lose once and the Enemy would turn
setback into disaster before hounding even that all the way to
annihilation. One of his own guard rode to his side, as exhausted as he
but hiding it better for her lesser burden of years.

``My prince,'' Captain Karolina Leisberg said, ``I would ask for your
permission to reinforce the rearguard.''

Dirty blonde hair peeked under the rim of her helm as the other soldier
forced her words to come out steady though she'd just volunteered for a
duty that was likely to see her and everyone she brought with her dead
before night fell. Klaus spat again into the snow, though the taste of
blood and grime could not seem to leave the roof of his mouth.

``No,'' the Iron Prince replied. ``I'm not throwing horse into that
hungry maw, captain. It'd be raised and sent back to hound us after
dark: I'll not hand Old Bones riders to bleed us.''

One of the few saving graces of fighting the Dead was the thrift of
horsemen, not that Keter had not tried to make up that lack by killing
and raising any cavalry it could get its hands on. Klaus Papenheim had
no intention of tossing a good company of four hundred Lycaonese horse
into the embrace of the Enemy, even to save twice that in foot. Not when
the cost in foot ridden down afterwards might easily dwarf what had been
saved, for none had known true pursuit until they'd been chased by
riders whose horses did not \emph{tire.} Not that the retreat from the
Hainaut lowlands hadn't been bound to be a messy affair regardless, as
abandoning the defences of the southern castles of the principality for
the sloping plains leading into Brabant had been as good as a written
invitation for Keter to strike at them.

There'd been no choice, though, Klaus and Princess Beatrice had agreed.
They were losing too many soldiers trying to keep the lines of defence
standing, it was only a matter of time until Keter ground them to dust
by attrition. They'd been in talks with Prince Étienne of Brabant for
near three months now, arranging the line of hastily-raised defences
where they would retreat to, but it looked like the losses in getting
there might be more dire than even the Iron Prince's bleakest
predictions. Their plan had been sound, Klaus still believed, and nearly
worked: a sudden offensive on the Dead King's western flank, as if they
were trying to break away and join the armies in Cleves, had drawn the
Enemy's strength away from the fortresses for a time.

The wounded had been evacuated from the southern fortresses first, and
then the garrisons under the command of Princess Mathilda, and so the
better part of the military strength in Hainaut would be preserved and
able to stiffen the defence of northern Brabant. But the distraction
force that Klaus and Princess Beatrice had led west to sell the lie by
their very presence had found stiffer resistance than expected: they'd
retaken the fortress at Luciennerie easily enough, for the Enemy had
torn down the walls taking it, but heading into the hilly highlands
afterwards they'd found a force Klaus had once believed to be an old
legend: the Grey Legion, led by the silent and implacable Prince of
Bones.

No petty skeletons, these, but undead whose ancient bones had been
surrounded by a body of wrought iron and steel. Though slow and
lumbering, the seven thousand abominations were near unbreakable by
force of arms, a crushing steel fist before which all men crumbled.
Their long axes entirely made of steel had reaped near two thousand
lives before the Prince of Hannoven understood who it was they were
facing, and by then the Prince of Bones had entered the fray. It was
said in Lycaonese legends that the Revenant who held sway over the Grey
Legion was an ancient Iron King, slain by the Dead King's own hand and
raised anew, but in Hannoven the tale was slightly different -- it was,
Klaus's own father had told him as a child, their ancient ancestor
Albrecht Papenheim. The Lord of Last Stands, the Lone Sentinel.

The same man who'd stubbornly held Twilight's Pass with only a bare
bones garrison for a year even as an Alamans foray into Bremen was
driven out. He'd died, the stories said, standing alone as the last of
his army on the same dawn the armies that'd beaten back the southerners
began marching north for the Pass. True to his charge `til the last
breath. Whatever the truth of who the Prince of Bones had once been,
he'd since been made into an implacable servant of Keter: the Silent
Guardian and the Blade of Mercy had both sallied out to meet him in
battle and been swept aside almost contemptuously. The Painted Knife had
struck it from the back trying to cut through the neck -- a practical
girl, that one, Klaus rather liked her -- and found that below the
armour was only a sea of furious sorcery that'd violently lashed out and
blown her away. If the Repentant Magister had not been able to trap him
within a circle of flames for an hour, the defeat they were inflicted
that day might have been an outright rout. Not that their retreat south
towards Brabant had been anything but a succession of losses since that
first defeat.

Three days, that was the worst of it. Another three days and their host
would have made it to the freshly raised fort at Engrenon and been able
to dig in to await reinforcements. The way the day was going, though, it
was not to be. Not unless hard decisions were made. A short trumpet call
told the Iron Prince that the woman he'd been waiting for had arrived,
and Princess Beatrice Volignac rode in with her personal guard at a
brisk trot. The latest Princess of Hainaut looked rather ludicrous, at
first glance: her considerable girth was coated in mail and heavy furs,
and from a distance she looked like a bloated waterskin forcefully
strapped atop a horse. Younger sister to Princess Julienne, she had the
same green eyes and coal-black hair but unlike her late sister's they
were set on a narrow, pinched face with too-large lips. Klaus had
thought little of her at first, he'd admit as much. For anyone to grow
fat as Princess Beatrice was would have been considered a shameful thing
back home, thoughtless indulgence and selfishness. To eat so much meant
that either another went hungry or granaries were taken from.

He'd been wrong though, even in his lazy assumption that her weight
meant she'd be a poor rider. She was a better horsewoman than even her
sister had been, and a finer lance as well. More importantly, Beatrice
Volignac had a searing fire inside her that made her one of the most
driven people the Prince of Hannoven had ever met. She hardly slept, and
Klaus had found her so proficient a captain of men he'd effectively
ceded command of all Alamans forces to her. She had a defter touch with
them, and under her command they'd risen to become almost as fierce
fighters as his own soldiers.

``Her Grace Beatrice Volignac, Princess of Hainaut,'' the herald
announced.

The woman in question reined in her horse by his side, gesturing for her
escort to withdraw. Klaus glanced at his own riders and nodded. Without
a word they did the same.

``Prince Klaus,'' the dark-haired woman said.

``Princess Beatrice,'' he replied. ``I'll be blunt: the rearguard is
failing and if we reinforce it we'll lose our entire host.''

The Alamans princess grimaced.

``I'd begun to suspect as much,'' she admitted. ``The lesser dead are
slowing them down too much, it's only a matter of time until the Grey
Legion catches up.''

And a pitched battle against that, neither needed to say, was a fool's
errand. They'd tried to send for the Witch of the Woods, whose sorceries
might be a match for those relentless steel killers, but there was no
telling if the riders had made it to a scrying station -- or whether
she'd arrive in time, even should she be reached.

``We've twenty thousand men to care for,'' the Prince of Hannoven said,
knowing it was likely closer to seventeen now. ``Those soldiers who hold
our back have proved brave and true, and this is poor repayment, but we
cannot throw away the other sixteen thousand trying to save that four.''

The Princess of Hainaut looked disgusted with herself, but she did not
disagree.

``Weeping Heavens,'' she murmured, ``what ugly creatures this war makes
of us all.''

Klaus's gaze turned to behind them, where the sprawl of their column
could be made from atop the hill where they both sat. His own horse had
scythed through the packs of ghouls that'd sprung from the snow and
earth to ambush the flanks of the column's centre stretch, freeing it to
resume its advance, but Keter had still gotten its due: the temporary
slowing had been enough to force the rearguard to fully engage the
undead skirmishers that'd been pursuing them all day. Though these were
little more than skeletons with javelins and swords, wearing not a
single piece of armour, the `naked' skirmishers were damned fast and
tireless, and one of the Dead King's favourite manners of tying down
foot so that his heavier forces could catch up to them. It would be so
here, the first battalions of sword and board corpses bearing old
ringmail already beginning to emerge above nearby hilltops. The
rearguard's shield wall was spreading out, preparing for the brutal
melee heading towards it.

``Someone will have to take command there,'' Klaus said. ``Else they'll
break too soon.''

There was no contempt in his tone as he spoke, for though the soldiers
in the rear were mostly Arlesites his own brethren would behave little
differently. Men often found great courage when they knew there was no
avoiding death, but when there was still hope for life -- as there would
be, should those in the back of the shield wall break and run before too
many of the dead arrived -- it was only natural to find one's feet
itching to flee. It was the duty of a good captain to make their
soldiers understand why there was a need to stand and fight even when
there would be no leaving the field alive.

``Agreed,'' Princess Beatrice said.

A heartbeat later they both began to speak-

``I'll-''

A twin look of surprise was shared, and Klaus Papenheim let out a rueful
chuckle.

``I'm at the end of my rope, Volignac,'' he bluntly said. ``I'm an old
cripple a long way from home, fading out no matter how much the priests
fight it. You've still decades in you, and your sister's sons to
raise.''

``You're the Iron Prince,'' she flatly replied. ``Your reputation is the
reason this is a retreat and not a rout. So long as you still breathe
our host believes it might survive this march. I'll entrust the safety
of my nephews to you and beg you might request of the First Prince that
she'll allow them to attend her in Salia.''

Before he could dismiss that for the foolishness it was -- how trite a
trade, to keep alive an old sack of bones like him for a few more years
when she might serve the cause for decades yet -- when they were
interrupted by the sound of swords unsheathing as one. Princes
Beatrice's guards and his were all looking at a strange gash in the air.
Through the opening Klaus glimpsed a night sky and eerily enough felt
warm breeze drift out. What came out with it, though was more familiar a
sight.

``Sheathe your swords,'' the Iron Prince ordered, then inclined his head
in greeting. ``White Knight. It's been some time.''

``Prince Klaus,'' the Sword of Judgement replied, inclining his head in
return.

``Come to join our little stand, have you?'' Princess Beatrice said.
``You're welcome to a few battalions. Plenty to spare.''

``Indeed,'' the dark-skinned hero agreed. ``Though I come bearing
request on behalf of another, in truth.''

``Indeed?'' Klaus drily repeated.

``It is requested that your rearguard pull back by a hundred feet and
any spears and pikes you have might be brought to its fore,'' the White
Knight said, impervious to sarcasm.

``And who requests this, pray tell?'' Princess Beatrice demanded.

It was a sound like cloth ripping, if it were a cloth so large as to
cover half the world. Klaus Papenheim caught sight of the rippling gates
and the soldiers that strode out of them. On the left side of the shield
wall, painted soldiers bearing hooked swords and shields rushed out. On
the other, rows and rows of shining steel marched out in cadence,
shields raised and tightly packed. \emph{Legionaries}. Army of Callow,
by the banner: stark cloth, bearing the Miezan numerals for three.

``The Black Queen,'' Klaus Papenheim said, and it was not a question.

Gates kept opening, some as small as a single man while others were
making room for engines of war being dragged out by wagon, and soldiers
kept pouring out.

``Today it is our turn, Iron Prince, to go on the offensive,'' the Sword
of Judgement smiled.

The Prince of Hannoven's remaining hand reached for the pommel of the
sword at his hip, clutching it tight. Another gate opened atop a hill to
the west and, banners streaming behind them, a company of knights rode
out to form a wedge aimed at the Enemy's flank. At their head was a
single silhouette in a colourful patchwork cloak, twin great crows
perched on her shoulders. A horn sounded: one, twice, thrice. Lances
went down and the last knights of Callow began their charge, their
warlord queen at the tip of the spear. Klaus Papenheim smiled a wolf's
smile, fierce and toothy and so very eager to finally sink his fangs in
the Enemy's throat.

``Then let's turn this army around, Princess Beatrice,'' the Iron Prince
said, meeting his comrade's eye. ``And remind Ol' Bones this war has yet
to find a victor.''