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\chapter*{Interlude: New Tricks}\label{interlude-new-tricks}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{interlude-new-tricks}} \chaptermark{Interlude: New Tricks}

\epigraph{``Surprise is not a fixed quality. Yesterday's coup is tomorrow's
blunder.''}{Theodosius the Unconquered, Tyrant of Helike}



Princess Beatrice Volignac of Hainaut believed in being honest with
herself even when it was painful to do so.

Particularly when it was painful. Even when back when she'd only been
the sister of the ruler of Hainaut, she had known that there would be
great dangers in refusing to look the realities of Creation in the eye.
It was why she did not bother to pretend that she was anything but fat,
even when her high birth meant that flatterers offered up sweet lies
insisting otherwise by the basketful. She was fat and she would not slim
up. It was the way of things, something she did not like but would have
to live with. Allowing herself to indulge in a fantasy world at the
expense of reality was just being childish, and childishness in a woman
of her rank was the road to an early grave.

And now she was not a mere princess' sister anymore, she was \emph{the}
Volignac. Julienne had gone off and chased a death worthy of song,
leaving Beatrice with two grieving nephews as well as a crown she'd
never expected she would have to wear. This was Procer and here blood
mattered -- especially when it was as old as that of the House of
Volignac -- so Beatrice was still being treated as royalty, but she had
no illusions about what she truly was: the leader of a large armed gang,
dependent on the charity of the high throne and foreign powers for her
survival. She was royalty only so long as no one cared to challenge it,
and should the army she'd salvaged from ruin perish it would be the end
of Hainaut as a realm. There could be no return when one's rule extended
only to ashes and refugees.

And so Beatrice had thought herself cleverer than those Langevin
whoresons in Cleves, at least, whose smidgeon of safety had deluded into
thinking that they could afford to \emph{plot} when the very end times
were at their doorstep. The staggering stupidity of Gaspard Langevin's
manoeuvering still surprised her -- had the man truly forgot that more
than half the forces defending his lands were foreign, that some of the
very same Firstborn he wanted to slight had bled for Cleven grounds?
It'd been a comfort, cradling that knowledge. And yet now, as Beatrice
Volignac's fingers tightened around her lance, she was forced to
acknowledge that in some ways she had been a fool as well.

Queen Catherine Foundling of Callow was an easy-going woman. That temper
was legend, true, but it was not easily provoked and when in a good mood
the young queen was both amiable and impulsively generous. She was free
with honours others in her position would have clutched tight. The Queen
of Callow's obvious lack of schooling in the mores of one of high birth
was an occasional figure of fun in Proceran circles, for she was cunning
in the way that a peasant or a tradesman was cunning -- without polish,
without elegance. Beatrice was not fool enough to consider the Black
Queen of Callow a mere savage, but between the cordiality and the
lowbrow habit she'd come to forget who it was that she was dealing with.

Then hills were cracked open, the sky opened and an army was smashed by
celestial deluge all in the span of an hour.

Beatrice remembered the stories, then, of the Battle of the Camps. Of
the Doom of Liesse, of what Callowan veterans fondly called the
`Arcadian Campaign' -- as if it were not utter howling madness, to have
\emph{invaded the realm of the fae} -- and at last of the Princes'
Graveyard, where sport had been made of her kind as none had dared since
Theodosius the Unconquered. The Black Queen did not bother with the
proper courtesies, Princess Beatrice remembered, because after the
Graveyard there was not a living ruler left who could demand them of
her. The Princess of Hainaut let that sink truth sink into her bones,
breathed deep of it. It would not be forgot again, she swore.

Princess Beatrice let the fear settle down, reminding herself that this
once the horror was on her side, and turned her gaze to the enemy.
Already the Third Army under its canny fox of a general was advancing at
a brisk pace, red-painted shields locked tight in a shield wall. The
waters had not yet finished flowing, but they'd slowed and would soon
die out. Behind them would be left muddy grounds and a roiling mass of
undead, an unprotected and hindered formation that the Army of Callow
was already punishing with sustained artillery fire. The rumoured
`copperstones' fired by the Sapper-General's ballistae burned with
bright Light where they hit, incinerating bone and unmaking necromancy.

The battle plan, as it currently stood, dictated that the flanks of the
coalition army would wait a span before advancing as well. Beatrice
understood the purpose, for she had made some study of war: it was hoped
that the enemy reinforcements already pouring out from deeper in the
pass could be drawn back into the water-emptied caverns by the Third
Army's hasty advance, in an attempt by Keter to pincer that force as it
pulled ahead of the rest of the coalition army. This was a risk, on the
surface, but in truth it was the Black Queen's attempt to limit
casualties on their side as much as possible. She wanted, in Beatrice's
opinion, to draw the dead into fighting her at the mouth of the pass.

There, where Keter's number could not be brought to bear as they would
in a broader field, the Queen of Callow wanted to eat up an army of one
hundred thousand one bite at a time. The battle lines would stabilize
once the flanks caught up to the Third Army, and when they were the
artillery could be brought to bear on the massed undead facing the
coalition. In a very real sense, the Grand Alliance soldiers would not
be the executioner's axe but the chopping block: their purpose would be
drawing out the enemy and keeping them in the artillery's killing field,
not necessarily to do a great deal of damage themselves. The young
queen's art of war was not famed without reason, though the Princess of
Hainaut did not believe it would be quite so simple.

It never was, with Keter.

Yet blind worries were no reason to stand paralyzed, so when Princess
Beatrice Volignac received the word from their supreme commander she
passed down the order to her captains. Trumpets sounded, a bright
clarion call, and the drumrolls began as the last army of Hainaut began
its advance intermixed with companies of fantassins. To the east the
Levantines mirrored her advance, and just as the Third Army reached the
edge of where the waters had touched -- where the dead had been swept up
-- the march of the flanks finally began. The Queen of Callow's plans
were proceeding nicely so far, Beatrice saw. A stream of reinforcements
had hurried out of the deeper pass to prevent the Third from just
sweeping through, and when finally it made contact with the shield wall
of the Third Army both forces slowed in the morass of mud and steel that
the water had made. The undead did not have sharp enough teeth to smash
a Callowan shield wall, though, so the stream split.

The caverns, torn open for al to peer into them, were beginning to fill
with undead attempting to go around the enemy's shield wall. Instead of
just fighting in front, the dead were trying to bring their numbers to
bear by attacking on the flanks as well -- for now only splashing
harmless at the sides of that stout eastern square formation, but the
undead were gathering numbers to mount more serious assaults. The enemy
was moving too quickly, Beatrice thought as she watched with narrowed
eyes. Light skeletons, without armour and barely armed, had been sent
out first and \emph{en masse} as they were not so prone to getting stuck
in the mire.

The Princess of Hainaut sent for one of her captains and ordered that
the roll of the drums be quickened, setting a quicker march. If she
waited too long, she feared that the Third Army might be entirely
surrounded before reinforcements arrived. That would be a disaster,
especially should the well-armed Callowan soldiers rise in the service
of Keter. No wonder Callow was bereft of all beauty, she sometimes
thought when looking at the pristine armaments of the Army of Callow.
All the wealth there had gone into war. Would that Julienne and their
father before her had practiced that same folly, which in these dark
times was no folly at all. The House of Volignac had more use for plate
than palaces these days.

The Princess' eyes drifted to the hills in the distance, beyond the
fighting, where she had been told that a great siege engine still
awaited. It had yet to fire a single shot, but as far as she knew the
Chosen had not destroyed it. What was Keter waiting for, then?

---

``We're through with the easy part now, ducklings,'' Sergeant Hadda
growled. ``Shields steady and mind your right. Don't get smart, it
doesn't pay off against the skellies.''

Edgar breathed out, feeling the usual tremor of fear going down his
spine. He'd be all right when the shield wall made contact with the
enemy, but until then he knew from experiences the nerves would stay
with him. Orders had come from above for the fourth cohort -- of which
Captain Pickering's company was the second company -- to move to from
the back to the left flank, to prevent the enemy outflanking the army.
Felt odd to be turning his back to the dead in front of them, coming out
of the Hollow, but then Edgar was just turning to look other undead in
the face wasn't he?

``Liked it better when we were just smashing the downed bones,'' Edith
muttered at his side. ``Like a dangerous chore, but still better than
the fucking shield wall.''

Edgar snorted. A dangerous chore had been a good word for it. The Black
Queen had called forth the tides to smash the enemy's hidden army, and
when it'd washed up in a sea of mud and roiling undeath the front ranks
of the Third Army had sent forth the priests of the House Insurgent.
Streaks of blinding Light had hit the struggling skeletons and ghouls,
carving smoking furrows into the mud, but it'd been the task of the
legionaries following behind them to shatter any bones they saw
sprouting out. Not harmless work, this, for sometimes skeletons played
deaded than they were and nasty surprises of mud and steel came at you
from below. But like Edith -- surprisingly sensible, for a Liessen girl
-- had said, still a damned sight better than the shield wall.

There, sometimes luck just meant you didn't get back up in the Enemy's
service when you died.

The company moved into place as smoothly as was possible on muddy
ground, a line of twenty moving to the front. Edgar's own line made up
the second rank, which meant they'd see fighting before long. Over the
shoulder of a shorter soldier, he saw pale bare skeletons with only
spears in hand deftly going through the mud. Companies filled in to the
side of Edgar's own, broadening the shield wall before the enemy could
sweep around it, and he breathed out quietly. If he'd been in the first
rank, he wouldn't have dared to take his eyes off the enemy even when he
caught movement above. In the second, though, he risked a glance.

It wasn't the Summoner and another Named engaging vultures up in the
sky, as now that the flood gates had closed they'd fled. Too low,
anyway, and too quick. It was with quicksilver surprise that Edgar
realized he was looking at artillery fire. Some sort of enormous spear
had been fired, or perhaps a pillar? Whatever the truth of it, a great
length of dark stone fell into the back ranks of the Third Army, killing
a dozen with the impact. Edgars' fingers tightened with fear at the
tight, for the black stone was glowing with runes. A heartbeat later,
there was a crackling sound and a burst of sorcery followed by screams,
half a company dying in a heartbeat in a mess of lightning.

Another pulse, and the dead rose.

The companies in the back of the Third turned to face the fresh threat
-- and while another pillar was shot at them, it burst in midair as if
artillery fire of their own had somehow caught it -- but the pulses kept
coming. Always the same two, lightning and necromancy, but it was a
potent combination and the streaks of Light and sorcery thrown at the
pillar did nothing. Edgar of Laure breathed out and looked away. Fear
ran in his veins as the distant sound of great drums began to thrum, but
he could no longer afford to look anywhere but forward. The first wave
of skeletons charged forward in utter silence.

``\emph{Dauntless},'' Sergeant Hadda screamed.

``\emph{Dauntless},'' they howled back, and for a moment the boast
chased away the gloom.

---

\emph{Gods}, Indrani grimly thought. \emph{That's a new one.}

What the Hells was that pillar? She recognized the stone from their trip
into the Crown of the Dead a few years back -- she'd never seen that
exact tone of black anywhere but in the deepest reaches of the Dead
King's fortress -- but it was the first time she'd ever seen this
particular breed of nastiness. It was a pretty simple setup, but the
alternating pulses had already chewed through two companies and all
attempts to handle the situation ended up turning into oil tossed at the
flame. Not that she could afford to spare much time looking. The enemy's
siege engine was still firing the damn pillars, and there were only so
many heavy arrows in her quiver -- three, actually, and she was already
on her last. That would mean three pillars swatted out of their
trajectory, at least, but somehow she doubted Keter would be running out
of ammunition the same time she did.

Nocking the last heavy arrow, Archer suppressed a grimace as she saw
another blackstone pillar let loose. She breathed out, steadied her aim,
then drew and released. Indrani didn't even bother to watch if she'd
hit, already knowing she would. Normally she'd have a few more heavy
arrows, but today Cat had sent her out to handle constructs so it was
unravellers she'd loaded up with. Useful things, those, but unlikely to
dent a pillar. Pickler's copperstone ballistas were still chewing up the
undead coming out of the pass so the Third wasn't in danger of
collapsing anytime soon, but casualties were already mounting and that
slippery eel General Abigail had left Archer behind at some point.

Glancing ahead, Indrani found that beorns were massing in the pass.
House-sized abominations resembling bears, damned hard to put down and
surprisingly agile for their size. They also carried bellyfuls of undead
soldiers, which made them a bloody plague for regulars: it was like a
living battering ram spewing out soldiers. Archer bit her lip. She
couldn't anything more about the pillars, it'd have to be one of
Catherine's contingencies that handled it. She could begin hammering
away at the constructs, though, so even as another pillar was shot in
the distance Indrani reached for an unraveller and nocked it.

In that, at least, she could tip the scales.

---

\emph{You have no assignment}, the Black Queen had told him.
\emph{Follow providence where it leads you.}

Balzer, who men now knew as the Sage, had done so without qualms. Even
the Peregrine had been burned by that villainess' wiles and he would not
gainsay them when they stood on the same side. So the Sage had retreated
into himself, closing all shutters so that nothing might obscure the
sensation of the slight nudges of Fate. And Fate had led him not to
stand with the Dominion's warriors, with whom he shared blood, or the
Procerans he had sworn to protect from the Enemy's attentions. It was
with this strange Third Army that his steps had taken him. Not even to
fight on the front, though Balzer knew many secrets of destruction
beyond those of his fists, but to stand at the back.

He understood why only when black stone fell from the sky as a pillar
and death bloomed around it.

Balzer had learned many secrets, for which some called him wise and
others had decreed him a sage -- even Sage, in time. But enlightenment
was not a shared road, it was the struggle within: lonely, endless,
forever reaching for unattainable perfection. So he was not surprised
when the priests of the House Insurgent molded their faith bright and
threw it against the black stone to no avail. No candle could light up
the ink-black sea. And what could sorcery do, be it flame or thunder?
Only a fool sought to beat a devil at devils' tricks. In this, though,
he could lend aid. The Sage waded through the fresh undead, smashing
skulls through helmets as he glided through their ranks, and before long
beheld the pillar from up close.

``What a malevolent thing you are,'' the Sage murmured, eyes narrowing.

\emph{Kill}, the black stone sang. \emph{Take. Kill. Take.} Its
insistence washed over him like morning mist, even the touch of
lightning -- the Light within him was greater than what the Enemy's work
could bring to bear. Balzer pressed his palm against the stone,
disliking its feverish warmth but not lingering on such ephemeral
things. Like the river, he must flow and never cease. It was the
opposite with this thing of stone and dread, for it was a shell hosting
pulsing hate and greed and nothing more. Shells always had weaknesses,
and the Sage found this one's before long. Undead grasped at his back,
but he was swift and his oneness with Light blinded their eyes.

``Begone,'' Balzer ordered, and struck.

In his right hand he held the power to \textbf{Destroy}, learned from
years of studying the lingering wisps divine wrath had left behind on
this world, and it was this he unleashed against the work of
Trismegitus. The black stone shattered under his fist, revealing a
howling sorcerous heart, and this he snatched and snuffed out. For a
moment, when it died, he thought he had heard a word. Not enough to
\textbf{Divine} anything from it, but perhaps with meditation\ldots{}
The sky above spewed out another pillar of black stone, falling among
soldiers to deliver thundering death. Ah, opportunity. The Sage smiled.

Today was a good day, he decided, and sought the next pillar of black
stone.

---

Lord Razin Tanja of the Binder's Blood threw down his shield, for the
javelin might not have punched through but it'd made it good as useless
anyway. That was the third shield he'd gone through since the battle
began, and he'd already had two horses killed under him: Keter was in
fine form today. His sworn swords, which had served as the vanguard,
were holding steady ahead of him. Malaga was upholding its honour today,
though it was Aquiline who was adding deeds to the Rolls for her Blood
-- she'd taken a few slayers and Lanterns to kill a Tusk that'd passed
by the Archer's punitive barrage, giving the killing blow herself.

It ought to put her in a better mood, wiping away the disgrace that'd
been getting wounded on the first real day of fighting of the campaign.

The dead were holding firm under the assault of the Dominion, the Lord
of Malaga found when he scrutinized the battle lines. The warriors of
Levant weren't making enough of a dent to push back the enemy, though
they were themselves in no danger of losing ground. Much as Razin would
have preferred a more glorious bent to the battle, he could not deny
that the Black Queen's plan was working: the copperstone ballistas of
the Army of Callow were tearing through entire companies of the enemy as
they poured out of the pass to reinforce, focusing on the centre in
front of the Third Army.

It was not a great honour for his warriors and Aquiline's to be used as
mere hooks keeping the metaphorical fish from wriggling out of the
ballistas' reach, Razin Tanja thought, but if it led to victory he would
make his peace with it. The Procerans had been tasked with the same on
their wing, anyhow, so there was hardly a surfeit of honour to go around
-- only Abigail the Fox, that ruthless and cunning general who'd bled
his binders so starkly at the Graveyard, had claimed any by being given
the pivotal role of the day. Still, there was no reason for the Dominion
not to try to seize a better position. Razin sent for his captains and
ordered a push at the very edge of the right flank, led by Lanterns and
axemen. One of his sworn swords brought him his fourth shield of the
day, and the Lord of Malaga pondered whether he should rejoin the ranks.
The men fought better when he fought with them.

The decision was stolen from him when Keter acted first. From the broken
ceiling of the caverns a great cacophony came as a devilry kept back was
suddenly unleashed: the surviving swarms from the first day, birds and
bats and insects, flowed out like a tide with ear-breaking shrieks. The
Lord of Malaga swallowed a curse. Of all the armies of men, the Dominion
struggled with these horrors the most.

``BINDERS,'' Razin Tanja screamed. ``BINDERS, ON THE SWARMS.''

---

The Summoner snorted derisively when he saw those Dominion savages
fumble around with their so-called sorcery. Half-baked diabolism was
what it was, this use of souls as anchors for bodies made of their
surroundings -- in this case, largely mud and stone. Not all the binders
could forge flying creatures, either, further proof of their fundamental
incompetence. Cedric reminded himself that not all could equal his own
mastery, but it was a half-hearted thought and almost more a boast than
a commiseration.

``You are certain your creature is capable?'' the Concocter asked.

Beneath them, his summoned wyvern batter of her wings as she sped
towards the undead swarms. The Summoner cast his colleague a scornful
look.

``A little late for asking, yes?'' Cedric sneered.

She rolled her eyes, the insolent wretch. Gods, but the Black Queen
simply did not recognize his worth -- always she used him as a
horse-handler for some inferior Named, when he could have done it all on
his own.

``My concoctions will work as promised,'' the Concocter flatly said.
``The only possible point of failure here is your work.''

The Summoner scoffed.

``My works is always beyond reproach,'' he said. ``It is why I have been
judged too valuable to send to the Arsenal, unlike some others.''

She probably would have argue with this self-evident truth, so Cedric
ordered his summon to bank hard upwards and leaned closer to its neck.
The containers the Concocter had loaded its belly with made the
construct less manoeuvrable, but he'd learned to compensate. It would
not matter, anyway, he thought. Unlike what his colleague believed, the
containers would not simply be spat out. Cedric manipulated his summon
to constrict its `stomach' when they neared the edge of the swarms,
breaking a container even as it opened its mouth. Like the old dragons
of legend, his summon breathed out a gout of something -- though it was
a gas instead of fire, rather lessening the effect.

The gas did its work, the Summoner was forced to admit even as he began
leading the wyvern into making a long pass through the mass of undead
creatures, spewing out clouds all the while. The brew attacked the
necromantic constructs almost as holy water would have, eating at them
and disrupting the spell holding them together -- it was particularly
lethal on insects, but even the birds collapsed after a heartbeat of
exposure.

Yet another victory to be laid at his feet, the Summoner thought with
smug satisfaction.

---

General Abigail figured this must be a little like how a chicken would
feel, if it were still alive when you put it on a spit to roast.

Just enough movement to give you the illusion that you might make it
out, when in fact you were just spinning around so that you could be
roasted more evenly. Sadly still on her horse, the general hid another
wince as she watched another pack of ghouls leap over the shield wall at
the front and land atop the shield panels of the mage cabals, then
wiggle through a weakness in them. The Third Army was being made to
stand and take the bloody hits to the Sapper-General of Callow could
pound the enemy into dust with her ballistas, a strategy that Abigail
would admit to herself she would have been very fond of if it didn't
involve her standing so close to the killing field.

Boots, that bloody horse, seemed to have grasped that they were in it
together at least until the end of the battle -- it was cooperating, and
had not tried to bite her in at least an hour. From that unfortunately
dangerous vantage point, General Abigail watched the field. It'd been
hours since the battle began, long enough that some of the mud was
beginning to dry, but for all the efforts on both sides it remained a
stalemate. Revenants had tried to smash the front lines a few times, but
Named had met them head on and gotten the better of them. Most the time,
anyway. Some devil in pale plate had killed a villain and only retreated
when the band under the Silver Huntress reappeared to force him back.

It'd be a while still until sundown, Abigail figured, but there would be
no clear winner today. The trouble was that even with rotations he
people were getting damned tired, and the Procerans likely had it worse
on their flank: half of them were mercenaries, and unlike the Dominion
on the right they didn't have the numbers to be able to keep back a
reserve. It might all turn nasty, if they weren't careful, and even with
the Second Army still being held in reserve a lot of damage might happen
very quickly if the left flank went sour. The trouble was that, when it
came to what she could actually do to help prop up the left flank,
General Abigail saw only the one option and she wasn't exactly eager to
take it.

``Might not be as bad as what happens if we wait, though,'' she muttered
at her horse.

She considered the risks. Gods, much as she hated to admit it doing
nothing might be the more dangerous of the two. The Volignac soldiers
were a hardy lot, but the mercenaries didn't have the same stomach for
the right. If some started running\ldots{} Abigail still held back on
doing anything until she saw the first fantassin company break, cursing
and giving orders to her general staff even if the mercenary company
managed to rally and return into position. It was only going to get
worse the longer she waited, and with Abigail's luck everyone up here
was going to pull a runner except her own damned army.

After dismounting she gathered as many companies of heavies as she dared
to pull to her and arranged for a wedge. She sent for the Third Army's
standard, picked some poor bastard to carry it into battle and waited
for the orders she'd given to trickle down to the House Insurgent and
the mage cabals. The change was noticeable, when it happened: from
defensive to offensive. The priests struck out with mass volleys as
shields winked out and were replaced by great spears of flame either.

``Gods,'' Abigail faintly muttered. ``How bad could it really have been,
being a tanner?''

Too late to back out now, she knew. After pulling all those heavy
companies to her, if she gave the command to someone else they'd turn on
her for cowardice. \emph{Ah}, she realized with a start, but there
\emph{was} a way to avoid fighting. She found the poor bastard she'd
given the army standard too and sent him back to the ranks with a smile,
taking it up herself. See, with that thing in hand she wouldn't be able
to use a sword so no one could expect her to -- \emph{shit}, Abigail,
realized, she could no longer use a sword. And Keter might go after the
standard to hurt morale. She'd made herself a target again.

``Are you ready, general?'' Krolem asked.

They were all looking at her, Abigail saw, waiting for her order. The
swallowed a whimper, which came out sound a little like a giggle. Some
of her officers looked impressed.

``Forward,'' General Abigail ordered. ``Into the breach, Dauntless.''

For once, she was lucky: the answering roar of approval drowned out how
shrilly terrified her voice had really been.