webcrawl/APGTE/Book-7/tex/Ch-028.md.tex

\hypertarget{interlude-junipers-plan-redux}{%
\section{Interlude: Juniper's Plan
(Redux)}\label{interlude-junipers-plan-redux}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Armies, like water, take the path of least resistance.''}

-- Dread Emperor Terribilis II
\end{quote}

They were wildly outnumbered, surrounded on all sides and faced with
horrors most. It was, Grandmaster Brandon Talbot thought, just another
day in the Black Queen's service.

He was already looking forward to the mad caper that would get -- most
of -- them out of this alive. He turned to look at the Black Queen, who
was grinning a hard grin that swept the doubts right off the frame of
any knight close enough to see it. Confidence rippled out through the
Order, passed from knight to knight like a whisper. And why wouldn't it?
How many times had it seen them laugh in the face of death and leave
victorious, that grin? \emph{Once more}, Brandon Talbot fervently
prayed. Brandon's queen cracked her neck then sighed.

``Well,'' the Queen of Callow drawled, ``isn't this a right mess,
Talbot?''

He swallowed a shit-eating grin. It was going to be one of \emph{those},
then.

``Positively uncivilized, Your Majesty,'' he agreed.

``Ain't it just?'' she said, the Laure drawl rearing up its head. ``Now,
looking at this situation before us, I can't help but feel that it's
missing something.''

``So much as a speck of godliness?'' Brandon tried.

She snorted, then erupted into a small chuckle like he'd said a joke.

``Oh, Talbot,'' she mused, ``the things you say sometimes.''

A heartbeat's pause.

``What's missing, of course, is \emph{more} monsters that want to kill
everyone,'' the Queen of Callow nonchalantly told him. ``So let's remedy
that lack.''

Brandon remembered a night when he'd been a boy and he'd snuck out of
the manor in Marchford with his sister. It'd been summer and they'd gone
out into the hills, bravely defeating sheep-shaped with wooden swords
before collapsing exhausted in the grass and looking up at a sea of
stars. He remembered the breeze, how warm it had been against his skin.
That was what Night felt like to him, when the Black Queen used it --
that warm breeze against his skin. There were goddesses behind that
power and should they frown upon him he thought it might be a terrible
thing to behold.

But they were passing fond, instead, and so he felt a warm summer
night's breeze against his skin as the Queen of Callow ripped open a
wide gate into Arcadia.

Just in time, for madness was seizing the enemy camp. Monsters were
tearing into men, howling devils flying through in riotous flocks and
for some godforsaken reason the Praesi were \emph{still} fighting each
other. On the others side of the gate Brandon glimpsed a screaming
blizzard, but when the queen rode into the white he shouted orders to
follow. The Order formed into a column and went through in good order,
the edges of their formation hacking away at the monsters and devils
that were already nipping away their ranks, but it was not long before
all had passed through. The grandmaster had run regular drills with
mages to be able to charge in and out of gates at the drop of a hat,
considering how often it was being used a tactic these days.

The whipping winds almost deafened him as he cross, but not so much that
when he approached his queen he could not hear her shouting. Squinting
he tried to make out what she was looking at, finding with surprised it
appeared to be fae. Maybe a half-dozen of them, riding on pale horses
and looking utterly unconcerned by the cold. Was Queen Catherine making
a bargain, an alliance? He spurred his mount closer to join her side.

``-and that smirk makes you look like an asshole,'' the Queen of Callow
shouted. ``I could kill you and all you friends with a hand tied behind
my back, even if I had \emph{no} fucking eyes.''

Ah, Brandon thought. The fae were not only pale, they were \emph{utterly
livid}.

``How quick you are to give insult, when still protected by oath,'' one
of the fae shouted, ``yet if-''

There was a flash of boiling-hot Night and half the fae's face melted
off.

``Boring,'' the Black Queen said. ``Hope you have more friends,
otherwise I won't even be able to work out an appetite for supper.''

The fae screamed, which Brandon thought might be something worth
worrying about before screams answered in the distance and he decided it
was definitely something worth worrying about. Queen Catherine glanced
at him, having finally noticed his presence.

``Ah, Talbot,'' she said. ``Good, get the Order in formation. We're
going to have get out of here in a hurry, I can feel at least a hundred
of them coming.''

She frowned, then cocked her head to a side.

``Damn, that's a Duke for sure and he feels \emph{pissed},'' the Black
Queen gleefully said.

``I'll see to it, Your Majesty,'' Brandon said. ``Are we to be fighting
an enemy in particular?''

``We're going to take the big tent that looks like a castle,'' Queen
Catherine said.

Ah, the one stinking of magic and heavily defended. He really should
have been expecting that. The grandmaster of the Order of the Broken
Bells saluted, and rode away to muster his knights.

The storm was getting worse and the fae angrier, leaving soon sounded
just fine to him.

---

It was a graceless thing, this battle.

``All this shady shit they've pulled and still it comes down to the
melee,'' Staff Tribune Ligaia muttered in disdain. ``So much for the
scheming witches.''

Marshal Nim Mardottir grunted back, noncommittal. Her old friend -- as
much of a friend as a human could be -- wasn't the first one today to
grumble about the plots of the Empress and the Warlock and how they were
staining the honour of what should have been a clean battle. She was,
though, the first one to complain the scheming hadn't been effective
\emph{enough}. In both cases, the Black Knight tended to disagree.
Malicia's surgical assassinations and hidden assets had paralyzed both
the deserting legions and the Sepulchral rebels, though according to the
Eyes even after being framed for an attempted coup Sacker had wiggled
back her way to command by swearing to be hard on the Army of Callow. As
for the Warlock's ritual against the Thirteenth, it had done more to
improve Nim's opinion of the woman than weeks of smile and pretty talk.

It had been both effective and restrained, showing regard for the
well-being of soldiers that'd served the Dread Empire loyally for
decades before being led astray. More regard than the Tower had thus far
shown for the legions that served it, one might argue. If one wanted to
be hung a traitor.

``If we can rout Sepulchral's brats quick enough we can win this battle
before nightfall,'' the Black Knight rumbled. ``It'll cost us bloody,
but I can see the writ.''

A casual look at the melee raging across the valley showed only men
dying pointlessly on a field. The deserters to the west, aggressively
trying to bleed everyone else, while across the valley to the east the
Legions of Terror and the Army of Callow lost hundreds every hour
struggling over the same two hundred feet of solid ground. Casualties
had been mounting all day, the Black Knight had already lost near two
thousand. It was worse for the Callowans, though. Sacker was going after
them hard with her siege engines and the Thirteenth's treachery had left
them underequipped and tired from the night fighting. The Army of Callow
would be the first to break. The Black Knight's gauntlet closed with
grinding sound of metal on metal before she pushed down the swell of
anger. She'd thought better of Jeremiah.

What had the Black Queen offered to turn him?

Sometimes it felt like she was the only person in Praes who gave a shit
about the Dread Empire. Malicia was scheming herself into the grave, the
Carrion Lord was setting fires left and right and all the while nobles
were at each other's throats like the middle of a fucking invasion was
the time to settle their grudges. Even the Legions, which should have
been a pillar of stability, were falling apart. Thousands had deserted
over the mind control hook. It wasn't that Nim didn't understand the
disgust, the sense of betrayal, but could Malicia really be blamed when
half the damned Legions had gone the way of the Carrion Lord a year
before? It was not madness, if it'd turned out necessary. Mok had argued
it smacked of slavery, though, and not been wrong.

His offered bargain -- returning to the fold in exchange for turning on
Malicia -- had been a damned silly thing anyway, and one Nim could not
accept lest the Legions of Terror fall apart entirely. Malicia had given
the order to keep stringing him along until Sepulchral was in place and
Nim had done it, with a heavy heart but done it anyway. Mok had been a
friend, once, but duty was duty. And when all the pieces had been in
place the Empress had paralyzed one enemy army and turned another
irremediably against Callow, over a day's span turning the Black Queen's
position from superior to imperiled. No, the Empress had proved over and
over that she was an able woman. But she was also one who still had
implanted commands in the minds of hundreds of her own officers. They
would only be removed at the end of the war. Nim should not begrudge
that, given the stained record of loyalty of the Legions over the last
few years. Should not.

Her gauntlets ground again.

``Ah, our beloved sorcerous overseer returns,'' Staff Tribune Ligaia
muttered. ``What glamour, what grace, what a stupid fucking thing to
wear on a battlefield.''

Snorting in an amusement, Nim turned to follow her subordinate's gaze.
Lady Akua Sahelian, who some already called the Warlock even if the
Powers had not yet granted her that in truth, was wearing an ornate red
dress on a field where almost all the Named present were after her head.
The Black Knight could not think of a goof reason for it, save possibly
because Soninke highborn were all fucking mad and this one madder than
most. Nim had yet to parse out Sahelian's game, what stood behind the
warning about the pattern of three and that convincingly raw tirade
about the Tower. She'd had confirmed the bit about the pattern, asked
old friends who'd learned a few pieces of namelore.

Nim would have preferred relying on the learned folk of Husse-il-Ossa,
what humans called the Hall of Skulls, but none of the seventeen kings
and the thirteen queens had far-lore to share on Names. Unsurprising.
She had risen high enough among her people to know more had been lost
over the centuries than the old crowns cared to admit. Human learning
had been made to serve, instead, and human learning had said Akua
Sahelian likely saved her life. This was not a pleasant position to be
in, but these were not times for pleasantness. The Black Knight need
only look to the three armies in Legion armour hacking at each other
like animals on a dusty field to be reminded of that.

``Lady Black,'' the Warlock greeted her, offering a bow. ``Staff Tribune
Ligaia.''

``The imperial's courts further south, in case you got lost,'' Ligaia
scornfully said.

``As usual, Lady Ligaia, your helpfulness is as a balm upon my soul,''
the Warlock smiled back with seeming delight before her expression
sobered. ``I happen to bring more urgent news, Marshal.''

The golden-eyed witch -- Powers, that colour was eerie even on humans --
turned to meet Nim's stare.

``The Lesser Breach has been closed,'' Sahelian said. ``That should mean
either Queen Catherine or the Hierophant are in the camp. I cannot think
of any other here with the power to so quickly achieve this.''

The ogre shook her head.

``The Hierophant's still out there,'' the Black Knight said.

She could feel him, through \textbf{Survey}. The aspect born out of
decades of battles had become like an unearthly sense, an ability to
take a single look at a battlefield and know what all the pieces in play
were. The Black Knight had taken more than a week to learn to recognize
the particular pulls at her instinct as being specific Named, but now
that she had it took only a moment to find them. So long as they were
`visible', anyway, a nebulous distinction she still sometimes struggled
with. The aspect had more esoteric applications besides, she'd learned,
pairing with another to turn a simple trick of power into something
entirely more deadly, yet such things must be used only with care. There
were rules to fighting between Named that she was still only faintly
aware of, no matter how many dreams of Amadeus' life the Powers saw fit
to send her.

``Then it must be her,'' the Warlock said.

Nim wondered if the girl knew of the faint undertone of yearning that
always crept in her voice when the Black Queen was brought up. It was
the worse kept secret in Praes that the Queen of Callow and the Warlock
had been sleeping together during their years abroad, but while most
assumed it had been a coup on Sahelian's part to prepare her later
betrayal the Black Knight believed otherwise. That break hadn't been a
clean one, for all that the Warlock had bound her fate to the Tower's.

``Take the mage cadres and go support the Eleventh,'' the Marshal of
Praes ordered her. ``The Mirembe remnants pulling together would be
trouble. You have my authority to take any measures necessary to ensure
they do not, Warlock.''

``How exciting,'' the golden-eyed witch drawled. ``By your will then, o
Black Knight.''

Nim waved her away irritably. Sahelian was a viper, but she was a
competent viper. If the Black Knight had to be saddled with a caster of
that calibre -- which were always trouble, the old Warlock had been too
-- it might as well be one who knew her business. Her attention returned
to the battle in the valley, the bloody melee in three parts. The Army
of Callow had edge ahead in the morning, the Black Knight thought, but
now that Noon Bell had come and gone it was increasingly on the
backfoot. An hour ago Nim had allowed free use of munitions on the front
against the Callowans and the difference in stocks was beginning to
tell.

Juniper of the Red Shields had clearly stacked the western corner of her
defensive line, knowing it was the weak point, but the Black Knight was
beginning to think the other woman had made a blunder. Her eastern flank
was wavering. Already the Callowans had nearly been pushed back into
their own trench and the pressure was only increasing. Had the young
Marshal of Callow thinned her eastern flank at the expense of her
western one, knowing the latter would bear the brunt of the casualties?
The Black Knight could not deny what her own eyes were seeing, what her
aspect kept drawing her attention to: there was an opening to take. Nim
turned an eye to Ligaia.

``Pass the word,'' she said. ``The Fourteenth is to mount an all-out
assault on the eastern flank. Commit the reserves, mages are to turn to
fully offensive fire and the siege to concentrate for a breach.''

It would not matter if Sepulchral's brat had some sense beaten into
them, the Black Knight thought. Not if the battle to the south was
already won, and this campaign with it.

---

Juniper ripped into the dried mutton jerky, swallowing a mouthful of
meat after barley chewing it. Gods but she'd been ravenous all day. She
bit off another piece then paused halfway through chewing, turning to
look at the woman to her side.

``Doesn't taste salted,'' she said.

Aisha wrinkled her nose.

``Swallow, Juniper,'' she said.

The Hellhound rolled her eyes but indulged her Staff Tribune. She then
turned back an expectant gaze. Aisha smiled, pushing back a strand of
that soft dark hair before answering.

``I had it washed and dried again,'' Aisha said.

Juniper, like most orcs, preferred meat without seasoning. It was a
small thing, but it was those that spoke loudest. Juniper felt a sharp
swell of fondness, one of those moments that always brought her
dangerously close to thinking about biting that smooth neck and a
hundred more things after that. Years of control kept her body from
moving, though she noticed that Aisha had caught the glance to the neck
and her lips quirked. Nothing was said of it, but the shared knowledge
hung between them in the air. Dragging her eyes away, Juniper of the Red
Shields turned her attention back to the battle in the distance. A look
into her Baalite eye confirmed the trend she'd seen forming over the
last half hour: the Fourteenth had committed to an all-out attack and
the eastern flank was buckling.

As it should. She'd ordered General Zola to thin it.

``It's time,'' Juniper said, licking her chops. ``Have the fallback
order sent.''

Aisha briskly nodded, rising from her seat to pass the order as Juniper
stayed in her own and watched the eastern flank through the Baalite eye.
Concentrated ballista fire had torn through chunks of the palisade and
the Fourteenth, though green, was well-trained. Their backline was
already bringing wooden planks to the fore that'd serve as makeshift
bridges to cross the trench and allow legionaries pour through the
breaches. Flags and sorcery had Zola informed now was the time to pull
out and the general did what she could. Her legionaries had been getting
pushed back into their own trench by the Fourteenth and that didn't
leave a lot of room to maneuver. She got out those she could and began
pulling away from the palisade.

The Fourteenth, howling and victorious, followed the retreating Army of
Callow. Against most armies Juniper's counterstroke would have resulted
into a rout, but this was the Legions of Terror. The young legionaries
were not baited into a hasty pursuit, instead getting shouted back into
line by sergeants and lieutenants, so when sixty feet behind the
palisade they found the Army of Callow reformed into a shield wall the
did not get scattered. Instead the Fourteenth formed its own shield wall
in time and the lines collided. Juniper sucked at her teeth. It would
hold, she decided. The Fourteenth needed to cross a trench and blown-up
chunks of palisade to reinforce its own shield wall, effectively slowing
its advance to a crawl.

The Fourteenth would be tied down there for hours with little to show
for it, should nothing change. Good.

The Baalite eye moved to the northwest, where the Seventh Legion was
marching down the road to reinforce. Nim would be sending her legion to
back up the Fourteenth, the Hellhound knew, unless she found a better
opening. Juniper just have to give her that opening, to heat up that old
veteran's lizard blood and bait her into going after a victory. Juniper
rose to her feet to give the order herself, the one that'd most matter
in this entire battle. It would be a rider that carried it, not flag or
sorcery. Otherwise the Black Knight might smell the trap. And away the
rider went as Juniper returned to her pavilion and her seat in the
shade, Baalite eye tight in grasp and Aisha returned to her side.

``This is it,'' Juniper gravelled. ``The knife's edge.''

The moment that would make or break the Battle of Kala. Even as the
situation on the eastern flank stabilized, the breaches stopped cold,
the western corner began to waver. It'd been hammered at all morning
from two sides by engines and legionaries, assaulted relentlessly.
Thrice rituals had been aimed at smashing the palisades, only the
Hierophant's intervention keeping the magic from breaking the stalemate.
Bravely the legionaries of the Army of Callow had held, but now they
were wavering. Their eastern flank had just been punched through by the
Fourteenth and enemy soldiers were spilling around the shield wall, the
Black Queen was nowhere in sight and the pressure was only increasing.
They broke, first in singles and then in clumps.

That was, at least, what Juniper was trying to sell.

And that was the danger, the knife's edge, because a feigned retreat
could so easily turn into a real one. Once soldiers got running, no
matter the reason, it was hard to get them to stop. Juniper had built
her box, even though its walls could not yet be seen, but it might yet
be blown apart by the same men she meant to hold it. Pickler's sappers
did what they were meant to, carpeting the grounds with smokers that
obscured everyone's line of sight as legionaries ran and legionaries
pursued. Not only the loyalist but after a few moments the rebels as
well, a chunk of wall in front of them just as undefended. Sacker,
Auntie Sacks, would order it. She couldn't afford to let Nim take those
fortifications, else her plan of bleeding both sides would go up in
flames.

The last thing the Rebel Legions wanted was to be penned in by the
Loyalists Legions, meaning they had to take that palisade so the Eighth
could not.

Smoke rose into the sky in great swaths and Juniper clutched the Baalite
eye so tightly her knuckles paled. What would win out, the Marshal of
Callow wondered. The fear, the instinct to run and keep running, or the
trust? The Army of Callow had grown to trust its commanders, fighting on
foreign fields, but the fear had grown too. Hadn't Juniper felt it
herself, that poison that spread through the veins and blackened
everything? More than just felt, she had wallowed in it. She'd glimpsed,
though, a light on the horizon. A way to settle it all at last. The
Hellhound leaned forward, jaw shut tight as she looked at her soldiers
move. \emph{Haven't you ever wondered? Where we stand, compared to the
best. We've fought Procerans and rebels and corpses, but this? This is
the standard. The reigning champion. The mother we must murder to
surpass.}

``Come on,'' the Marshal of Callow murmured in Kharsum. ``It can be
done. We can beat them. Trust me and we can \emph{beat them all}.''

Soldiers ran, past the lines and the officers waiting with their
whistles and shouts. Juniper's heart leapt up in throat, but it wasn't
done. The same hard iron that'd seen the Army of Callow through the
Camps and the Graveyard, through the Boot and Hainaut and dozen more
battles, it told. Some kept running, but some fell into line. And that
was all that was needed: a few people standing. Men gathered to them
like a standard, lines firming, and Juniper began to laugh. In the
distance, sappers began to raise mantlets. A box, formed out of the
eastern corner of trenches and palisades and the second corned the
sappers were now making of wood. A box filled with smoke, and soon to be
filled with only Named and her enemies. Juniper rose to her feet,
passing the Baalite eye to Aisha.

``Juniper?'' she asked.

``Look into it,'' the Hellhound said. ``Northwest.''

Aisha did.

``The Seventh Legion,'' Juniper stated, ``is no longer moving to
reinforce the Fourteenth. It's moving to reinforce the Eighth.''

The dark-haired woman put down the Baalite eye after a moment, smiling.

``It is.''

The Hellhound flashed her fangs at the horizon, triumphant.

``Where's that wagon with the roof again?'' she asked. ``I need a nap.''

Aisha started in surprise.

``Catherine is not back from Sepulchral's camp, we don't know-''

``She chose me,'' Juniper said. ``I choose her. She'll get it done, and
that means the last decision that matters in this battle has already
been made.''

Juniper of the Red Shields, Marshal of Callow, walked out the pavilion
with steps lighter than they had been in years.

---

``What the fuck is happening in there?''

Ligaia wasn't asking anything that the rest of the general staff wasn't
silently wondering. The Black Knight surveyed the movement of her own
troops, but she found nothing but the obvious. The Eighth Legion had
entered the smoke and was engaged in a brutal melee against the Army of
Callow and the deserters, Sacker pouring her soldiers into the grinder
to make sure she wouldn't get enveloped by any single force. The Seventh
was reinforcing, but the truth harder to swallow was that those
reinforcements were \emph{needed}. Between the casualties of the
Thirteenth's treachery and the brutal blind fighting in the smoke the
Eighth was getting mauled. Nim watched the movements of the troops,
towering above her officers, and her fists began to grind.

``Ma'am,'' Senior Sapper Licker said, catching her attention. ``We're at
risk now. The deserters are still hitting our trench but we can't spare
the men to hold it unless we send reinforcements from the Seventh. The
flank's getting stretched too thin.''

``Your recommendation?'' Nim asked.

``Deploying goblinfire,'' Licker evenly said. ``They'll answer in kind,
but it'll lock down that entire front. We can focus our efforts on the
breach in the smoke.''

The Black Knight hesitated. Already she could make out currents in the
battle. The Fourteenth was deadlocked, while her legions were pouring
their strength into the smoky breach. So was Sacker, and with the main
front of contention between the loyal legions and the deserters the
tendency would only increase. \emph{We have the advantage}, Nim reminded
herself. The Seventh were fresh and the Army of Callow stretched thin,
while Sacker's rebels were tightly packed -- it would be difficult for
them to mount a harder push because there simply wasn't enough room at
the bottom of the hills for them to muster. Senior Sapper's Licker was
going to make the breach into the fulcrum of this battle, but it was a
fulcrum the Legions were best placed to triumph in.

It would get bloody, but it would get done.

``See it done,'' she ordered.

And with all of it resting on one breach, there was only one thing left.
Nim would have to head into the smoke herself, lead the Seventh
personally. Tempted as she was to \textbf{Delegate} one of her personal
guard and guide them through \textbf{Survey}, her instincts ran against
it. Half-hearted commitment here would be punished, she dimly felt.

``Ready the Warhammers,'' the Black Knight ordered. ``I'll lead the push
into the breach personally.''

---

The Duke of Boreal Lights had been helpful enough to die taking out the
Hellgate, but Brandon found the man's retinue decidedly less obliging.

``Why-''

He hacked into the flesh but the blue-skinned fae turned into ice,
shattering and reforming.

``-won't-''

Even cutting the bastard thing's head off didn't help. It turned to mist
and reformed, and then it had the gall to stab at him. Brandon slapped
away the spear with his shield and stabbed it in the eye because,
really, where was it getting the bloody nerve? It should have been dead
six times over by now.

``-you-''

Oh and now the devils wanted a piece of him as well. The grandmaster
slice through the wing of the howling monkey-creature and deftly led his
charge to kick it after it fell, turning to parry a spear blow and
smashing the fae's face with his shield with a grunt.

``-\emph{bloody}-''

Oh, the broken nose didn't even come back even after it turned to mist.
Brandon snarled, smashing its head repeatedly with his shield as the fae
rocked back in pain and dismay.

``-DIE!''

The bottom of his shield went into the creature's skull with a wet
squelch and finally it dropped to the ground. Panting but vindicated,
Brandon turned to have a look around. The rebel Praesi had finally
stopped fighting each other, after \emph{only} half an hour of still
hacking at their kin while the world went to the Hells, but the Eleventh
Legion had reached the camp and even with the truce the defence was too
disunited to drive it back. Outnumbered almost four to one, the
legionaries were still making meat of the rebels -- though it helped
that the devils flying around everywhere avoided them like the plague
and it'd started raining acid on their foes. That wasn't Brandon
Talbot's problem, though. Now, where was the queen?

Ah, there she was. Near the castle-tent, fighting what looked like a
pitch-black land octopus with suckers that spat out an acidic goo. A
tower of black flame took care of that as Brandon rode to her side,
pulling back his knights with him as he did -- there was danger in
stretching themselves too thin even of the rebel Praesi seemed to be
avoiding fighting them -- but by the time he arrived she was tossing a
dead fae in the path of a devil belching vivid red flames while trying
to fend off what looked like\ldots{} a hippogriff? No, not quite. He
might never have seen one of those outside heraldry, but while the
creature had horse's legs and tail it instead of a hawk-like appearance
it had great crow's wings and head.

It also bit off the head of the queen's horse, before she stabbed it in
the neck.

Brandon rode at a gallop, smashing into a devil that tried to fall upon
the queen as she leapt with a loud grunt of pain from her dying horse to
the monster and Night bloomed like a sickly wind. With a satisfying
crunch he smashed the bloody thing's skull with the pommel of his sword
even as another clawed at his armour with screams of pain and the hymns
burned bright. By the time he was done, the queen was sitting astride
the dead crow monster with a smugly satisfied look on her face. No, not
dead Brandon saw. Undead, for it blinked and let out a happy screech
that had him wincing in pain.

``This is mine now,'' the Black Queen happily announced, and a heartbeat
later she was aflight.

Godsdamnit, Brandon thought, that was going to be just as bad as the
damned fae flying horse. It'd been impossible to catch up to her when
she rode that one, and at least that bloody thing hadn't had
\emph{claws}. He looked up, saw she was still headed for the great
pavilion and rode after her with a sigh. Some Praesi household troops
were in the way but it was nothing lances and a gallop couldn't
disperse. He saw the queen disappear into the pavilion, which was a
relief until he heard the fighting in there. He charged in with a wedge
of a hundred behind him, smashing into what looked like a three-way
brawl over a corpse. Sepulchral's squabbling heirs and a company of
Legion heavies, led by-

Oh, the most beautiful woman Brandon had ever seen in his life. Would
ever see in his life. He ought to dismount and kneel, to pledge service
and love and-

``General Lucretia, if you don't stop glamouring my knights I'm going to
feed you to my horse.''

The warmth went out of the world. Brandon came back to himself, sweat
drenching his back, and realized with shame that he'd been halfway out
of the saddle. Many of his men had been no better. His fingers clenched
around his sword. Another abomination best put to the sword, this
smiling woman among the legionaries.

``Black Queen,'' the general spoke in a honeyed voice, ``there is no
need for-''

``I warned you,'' Catherine Foundling said, voice echoing of distant
caws. ``\textbf{Bite off your tongue}.''

Power rippled out, and while the dark-skinned general shrieked and fled
in a flap of dark wings as she spurted blood many of her legionaries
ended up struggling with the same order. Brandon looked around and
smirked. Some of the Praesi seemed to be struggling as well, but not a
single knight of the Order had been affected.

``Forward,'' he shouted. ``Forward and drive the Legions out!''

A shout forty years too late, but better that than never. Even the
Praesi rebels gathered themselves long enough to attain usefulness and
they helped push out the legionaries, which retreated out of the
pavilion after heavy losses. That did not, unsurprisingly, end
hostilities. Brandon's queen had led her\ldots{} mount near a corpse on
a table made of solid gold and pearls, which seemed to rile up the
Praesi. Two nobles -- they had the look, the attitude and most of all
the golden eyes -- led the charge, loudly arguing though they refrained
from violence.

``The succession of Aksum is no matter for outsiders, it is-''

``It is already decided,'' the boy lord shouted. ``It was made official
years ago, Sanaa, that I am heir. Your grasping attempts to pretend
otherwise-''

``You are the creature of Nok, not a true Mirembe,'' Lady Sanaa scoffed,
``and-''

``Gods Below, this might be the most terribly tedious shouting match
I've ever heard,'' the Black Queen said, Night billowing around her.
``Here's a solution: neither of you are in charge.''

The staff of yew she always carried was lightly tapped on the corpse,
which Brandon now saw was that of an old woman. The pressure of the
Night went out and the body shuddered. This did not, unsurprisingly,
seem to please the two squabbling nobles.

``It is against law for undead to hold any noble title,'' the young lord
scoffed. ``Do you think putting strings on a corpse will make it
otherwise?''

``This is absurd,'' Lady Sanaa hissed. ``For once, Isobe speaks truth.
By what right do you meddle in our affairs?''

The Black Queen smiled, pleasant and mild, which had Brandon tensing.
That was usually the smile that preceded corpses beginning to drop.
Beneath her the crow-winged chimera stirred, looking up with cruel eyes,
and in the magelights of the pavilion the dark fringes Mantle of Woe
seemed to meld into the creature's feathers.

``By what right,'' the Queen of Callow softly said. ``You lot keep
asking me that, don't you? Nobles and officers and even Malicia herself.
By what right do I meddle in the affairs of Praes, which is not mine to
rule and a sovereign state beyond my reach?''

Her sole eye burned with feverish light.

``By what right?'' the Black Queen hissed. ``You dare ask me that, you
pack of jackals who bleed Calernia as it struggles for its very right to
exist, who writhe and bite and have a thousand times turned the east
into a madhouse?''

The Praesi flinched away, but Brandon leaned forward with an eager
smile. His knights too. They knew it well, that weight in the air. Had
learned to love it, for though it was the herald of terrible things that
terror was ever turned away from them. She was a queen in black, adorned
in wrath and dread, but she was \emph{their} queen to the bone.

Let all the world fear her, save the sons and daughters of Callow.

``\emph{You made yourself my mess to handle},'' Catherine Foundling
snarled. ``That is my right. The east is your prison and I am your
fucking warden, rattling the cage until you fall in line.''

Brandon felt it then, the\ldots{} pressure. It was suffocating and ever
soul in the pavilion seemed to be choking on it. The queen through them
all with her gaze, and wherever she looked knees buckled.

``So what will it be, Mirembe?'' the Queen of Callow said. ``How many of
you do I need to butcher before the lesson sinks in?''

Silence was her answer.

``I thought so,'' Catherine Foundling quietly said. ``Get up, Abreha.''

The corpse did, looking around blearily. As if she'd just woken up from
a long nap.

``Your Majesty?''

``Yes,'' the young woman smiled, ``I am that. Now let's get this army
moving, yes? We have work to do.''

``I await your orders,'' the corpse said, bowing her head.

``First we're going to slap away the Eleventh,'' the Queen of Callow
said, ``but after that? Well, we're going to march.''

``Where to?'' the corpse of Abreha Mirembe asked.

``We're going to visit my old friend General Sacker,'' Catherine
Foundling coldly smiled. ``And remind her what happens when people cross
me.''

---

The hammer went down, pulverizing the sergeant and the legionary next to
him. The Black Knight withdrew the weapon, shaking away the pulp as her
Warhammers fanned out around her. The melee was turning to their
advantage, as much as Nim could tell in this maze of smoke, but her
instinct was pulling at her. Something was wrong. An arrow streaked
through the smoke, which she tried to swat down but missed by an inch.
One of her retinue screamed as it went through his eye, dropping to the
ground and twitching.

``\emph{Archer},'' the Black Knight snarled.

She and the Silver Huntress had been scything through her soldiers and
her personal guard alike, taking lives and then melting away before they
could be caught. The sole time Nim had thought she'd caught the Huntress
she'd run into the Barrow Sword instead, who had somehow managed to scar
enchanted armour straight out of the Tower's vaults with a bronze sword.
The Black Knight stomped through the smoke, sweeping away another
handful of legionaries with a blow but finding no trace of the Archer.
In the distance someone died in a flash of silver Light, the Huntress'
signature.

Nim wouldn't fall for that again. Going hunting for them only ended up
in her swinging at smoke while she took one arrow after another. None
had penetrated the armour so far, but the Light would shatter the
enchantment fully in time.

``Forward,'' the Black Knight shouted.

Her soldiers shouted back. There were more enemies ahead, full companies
now, and the sound of sharpers in the distance. The fighting grew harsh
but they broke through, Nim leading the charge, until she made out
distant shapes ahead. A wall? A few more steps forward, slapping away an
arrow from the Archer come for her neck, and she realized it wasn't a
wall. Not exactly. Mantlets had been placed as some kind of rough
palisade, and before them she saw a sea of blood and flesh. Munitions
and crossbow bolts shredded anyone that came close. What was this? She
took another step forward, but she felt sharp pressure from her left.
Nim backed away and a spell of blue light passed through where she'd
just stood.

The Hierophant?

No, she thought as pressure came from the right this time and she caught
a blade with her gauntleted hand. The Squire looked up at her through
his helmet, blue eyes burning, and the Black Knight felt her stomach
drop. The boy had come for her, as Sahelian had warned. She tried to
crush the sword but he ripped it free, dancing away from her hammer blow
with speed he'd not had last the fought. Another arrow needed swatting
away, and then as she tried to smash the Squire darting close a swirling
spell of darkness seized her foot. She was pulled off her feet, and
while she backhanded the Squire away he landed on his feet with his
sword up. This wasn't a good fight, she thought, they had her swinging
at ghosts and-

The Black Knight breathed in sharply. When had been the last time she'd
slain a legionary with the marking of the Army of Callow? Often it was
hard to tell in the smoke, but she couldn't recall. There'd been a few
at first, isolated, but she'd been fighting for hours in the smoke now
and it had been \emph{long}. But no, that made no sense, why would
Sacker commit so thoroughly to this breach if she was losing so many
men? The Squire came for her from behind but she smashed her hammer into
the ground, bumping him up and backhanding him away. An arrow wreathed
in Light streaked for her side but the Black Knight screamed, smashing
through it, and when a spell that was a blue drill of light struck at
her armour it dispersed against the enchantments.

In the distance power bloomed, once and then twice, and though one
disappeared the second struck close. Nim was half braced for a betrayal
by the Warlock, but the magic that descended was not treacherous: a
massive gale of wind blew, cutting through the smoke. Suddenly half the
obscured battlefield was revealed, and what Nim \textbf{surveyed} with a
single glance had her freezing. The Rebel Legions were being routed. Not
only were their corpses carpeting the ground where the Seventh had
broken their push, but in the distance smoke rose from where they camp
was in Moule Hills. Had someone hit them from behind?

\emph{Oh}, Nim thought. That was why Sacker had been committing to the
push her. With her back aflame and only one way out -- the goblinfire
had closed the other -- if she did not break through here her legions
were at risk of being surrounded and slaughtered to the last. An arrow
flew but this time the Black Knight saw it come from far and simply
stepped out of the way, then punched through a wavy spell and swung at
the Squire. The boy ducked out of the way and then slid under her,
scoring a blow against her leg and cutting into her greaves, but she
kicked him away and he went tumbling. She pursued, trying to end this
even if lore said she might not, but he ducked behind a blood tree of
all things.

Nim's hammer went right through, wood flying as the rotten thing
half-collapsed. It was hollow, and though she was already aiming another
blow at the Squire her aspect tugged at the corner of her eye. Inside
the dead tree, words had been carved in Lower Miezan.

\emph{Marshal Juniper wins here.}

Nim breathed in sharply, the Squire retreating as she slowed her steps.
Looking around, the Black Knight could not see a single company of the
Army of Callow on the field. Only manning the mantlets to the south and
west, and in front of them piles of bodies were piled so high they were
almost a second wall. It suddenly fell into place and marshal felt like
she was going to be sick. The Marshal of Callow, Nim realized, had
baited both her and Sacker into pushing their main offensive here,
through this\ldots{} box. And then she'd withdrawn her own soldiers to
the edges, and let her enemies slaughter each other under the cover of
smoke. They'd been fighting each other all afternoon, ruining their
armies against each other as the Army of Callow mopped up the edges and
waited. The Legions had lost, Nim thought. Rebel and loyal alike, they
had lost -- and they would continue losing as long as they fought.

There was only one word left to speak, she knew, before this day could
end.

``Retreat,'' the Black Knight shouted, and it tasted like ashes in her
mouth. ``Retreat!''