A Practical Guide to Evil-Chapter Book 7 62: Finish

-my sword cleared the scabbard, rising to catch a glint of sunlight.

“Let us remind the Enemy,” I said, and then stilled.

More words were on the tip of my tongue, defiance and pride, but my vision was swimming and suddenly I felt like emptying my stomach all over the avenue. Something had just happened. I’d just been… Choppily moving around on Zombie’s back, I saw the dead gathering in bands down the paving stones that would lead us all the way to the inner wall. Nausea clogged up my throat and I retched drily, pawing at my sweaty face. Tears were trailing down my face, like I’d looked into the sun for too long, but when I turned I saw enough. My knights were going through the same thing, several of them vomiting on the floor while others had been thrown off by panicked horses. This isn’t what happened, I thought. My blood was pounding away at my temples.

“Akua?” I rasped out.

My eye went to her and found her bent over her necromantic horse, breathing panicked as she tried and fail to say still.

“Sorcery,” she got out. “Something…”

She used a word in Mthethwa I’d never head before, maybe from one of the northern dialects.

“I died.”

I shifted in my saddle again, feeling like a raft going down rapids as bile rose up my throat. It had been Brandon Talbot who spoke. His face was haggard.

“I remember dying,” the bearded knight continued. “Thrown off the edge, the way my skull broke when I landed.”

The Sisters were talking in the back of my mind, their voices like the scream of a migraine, and I couldn’t even make out what they were saying. It was fast and angry and worried. But I remembered it, just a bit. Charging up that avenue with the Broken Bells behind me, Praes coming to our aid. Storming the wall, setting foot in the Dead King’s last redoubt and then… I let out a hoarse scream, clutching my helm as warm nails were driven into my brain. The pain, Gods the pain. Someone laid their soft hand on me, whispering an incantation, but it was dim. Distant. The memories were not. I led us straight into a trap, I remembered with dread. There had been no way to know how many had died when Keter had turned into a lethal jigsaw puzzle, but I could hazard guesses.

Armies had been broken, mine worst of all.

“The Riddle-Maker did this,” I guessed, forehead burning with fever.

The last thing I remembered hearing was his challenge to the Dead King, though the precise words escaped me. Most the knights seemed all right by now – shaken, but no more than that – but I was still feeling shaky. Had I gotten it worse than most? Why did… no, I could wonder at that later. We had been sent back by an hour, maybe a little more, and now we knew that Keter itself was a death trap meant to shatter our armies. My eye turned to Akua, who looked a little green bit otherwise fine.

“I can’t feel the ritual getting started,” I said. “Can you? If he got sent back an hour as well, he should be striking immediately knowing we won’t fall for it twice.”

“A ritual on that scale cannot be done by snapping one’s fingers, Catherine,” the sorceress peevishly replied. “We saw the end, not the preparations. The first steps are likely being taken below our feet as we speak.”

Unless the Dead King hadn’t gotten sent back – or his memories sent back, or whatever the Hells this was. That would be too lucky, I grimly thought. I have to assume he went back as well. The only person who could tell me what this all was would be Kreios the Riddle-Maker himself, who was… actually where was he right now?

“Talbot, Akua,” I said. “Hold, do not charge.”

Both opened their mouths, but before they could ask me anything I’d spurred on Zombie and she took a few bounding steps before leaping into flight. Streaks of sorcery whizzed past us and arrows were fired, though they fell far short, as I the hippocorvid beat her wings hastily and circled ever higher. The smoke was thick up here and ash stuck to my drying sweat in clumps, but I looked with my fleshless eyes and saw where I needed to. The gate that the Procerans had taken not so long ago was full of fantassins and conscripts, but there was not a hint of the Gigantes I had glimpsed there before passing out.

“Are you not here yet?” I murmured.

Gods, I thought. I knew that, like teleportation, ‘time’ magic was theoretically possible. Not under the Trismegistan theory, sure, but what would a Titan care about that? The sheer amount of power it would need, though, was somewhere between mind-boggling and outright divine. I hadn’t thought even an ancient old monster like Kreios the Riddle-Maker would have that in him. Because we know fuck all about him in the first place, I thought, except that he’s to Gigantes what Sve Noc are to drow. Regardless, I had my answer: the Titanomachy was not here, had yet to arrive, and that meant in every way that mattered we were still fucked.

We couldn’t stop the Dead King’s ritual puppetry of his city and we had nothing prepared to take armies through the field of entropy magic that lay beyond the inner walls. Even if we made better time than our last swing at this, went in better prepared, we would lose. And I had my doubts we’d do better, now that the Dead King had no reason to hold back since his trap had already been revealed. He’d come for us with all he had. I cursed under my breath, knees guiding Zombie into a dive. She screeched, displeased she’d done all this flying without getting to kill anything, but obeyed. I was in no better mood. I’d put it all on the line and it had not been enough, so there was only one thing left to do.

Call the retreat.

We landed back with the Order of Broken Bells, which had formed into a wedge in my absence but obeyed the orders. Akua looked better, I thought after glancing her way. Almost back to normal. My knights were even better, except for a few whose faces were still sickly. Those who died, I guessed. Talbot saluted when turned to him, face grim.

“We pull back,” I told him. “We can’t take the inner city and if we can’t do that then we’re just throwing lives away.”

“It will be butchery getting out,” the grandmaster evenly said.

“I know,” I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “But it’ll be a lot worse than that if we stay.”

In his eyes I saw he did not agree, and I was not sure whether that was irritating me or making me proud. Maybe a little of both.

“Send riders to the commanders on the ground,” I ordered him. “We need to move quickly.”

“As you say, Your Majesty,” Brandon Talbot replied, fist over heart.

My gaze turned to Akua, who already had a cocked eyebrow.

“I’ll reach out to the flying fortresses,” she said. “Ask them to cover our retreat instead of our advance.”

“Everything they can,” I quietly said, eye moving to the dead gathering on the avenue. “This is going to get messy.”

I’d been taught an army was never so vulnerable as when it was retreating, and that’d been talking of some field or city. This was Keter.

It was going to get bad.

I charged twice with the Order of Broken Bells, to disrupt the dead before they could mass enough to overwhelm our position at the avenue. It was a brisk, shattering business that left skeletons in pieces after which we withdrew. Above us the flying fortresses were pulling back as well, but not before High Marshal Nim gave Keter her goodbyes. A trail of barrels fell in the wake of the retreating fortresses, smashing into the ground to a familiar sight: green flame. The Black Knight unloaded her stocks like a spendthrift, drowning the Crown of the Dead in death all around the Army of Callow’s dug in positions. The ogre was not willing to sacrifice the Legions to cover our retreat, but she was willing to do the next best thing.

Word was sent to the Levantines and the Procerans that we were beginning the retreat, though I had no doubt they were doing the same already, and my army closed ranks as it began to cede ground. We’d have to cross the same steel bridges that had brought us here under fire once more, which would be costly, but we’d survive taking a licking like that. The same could not be said of staying in the city. Besides, with the goblinfire surrounding our position we shouldn’t be too badly pressed. I sent the Order back, since knights would be of no use in narrow streets packed increasingly tight with our soldiers, and gave Grandmaster Talbot orders to expediate the first bridge crossings.

On my way back to the hill we’d bled so much to take, I found the Painted Knife’s band waiting for me. Roland still looked sick, I noticed, but the others were fine. More sensitive to power? Didn’t matter and I didn’t ask. They had news for me and that took precedence.

“All armies are retreating,” Kallia told me. “Just heard it from the Page, Warden. The Grey Legion is hammering at the Procerans and my people are on the verge of collapse.”

“Why is the Dominion folding?” I frowned.

They hadn’t been that badly off last time.

“I do not know,” the Painted Knife unhappily admitted. “Neither did the Page. All I can say is that there is a fighting retreat on all sides.”

“It’s the best we can hope for,” I grunted. “At least we-”

I didn’t even have time to tempt Fate, it took the lead. Before I could finish my sentence I felt the fabric of Creation begin to bend and scream, as atop the tower in the depths of the inner city a burning glare turned its attention to us.

“Demons,” I quietly said. “Fuck.”

The Dead King had decided to stop pulling punches, and it went downhill from there. One of the abominations bent the very floor of Keter, wiping away the goblinfire and turning it into a surreal sculpture as undead poured into the breach. To the east instead a two-legged creature without legs whose very silhouette hurt my eye to behold began to eat the green flames, finally answering the old question of whether goblinfire worked on demons. Only some of them, it seemed. What had been an orderly retreat went to shit in moments.

“Akua-”

“I won’t be enough,” she interrupted me. “We need diabolists, Catherine. We need the High Lords.”

She was right, and if the demons weren’t contained then it was more than just the Army of Callow that was at risk. They might sweep through right into the camp.

“Fuck,” I cursed again, and drew my sword. “Get them down here. On my authority.”

In some ways, what followed was worse than Maillac’s Boot. There we had picked our grounds, prepared and weighed the risks. Here it was madness on all sides, my soldiers never in the right place while the enemy struck from everywhere. I fought in the whirlwind of the melee, never staying in place, always going where the shield wall was collapsing or the monster had broken through. I emptied myself of Night, torching ranks of Binds and almost broke my arm dragging a soldier out of a collapsing house. Moments later I had to bring down another on top of my own legionaries as a swarm of ghouls overwhelmed them, biting the scream on the tip of my tongue.

The Praesi came, but there was no clean victory to be had here. One of the Old Mothers topped down, the enchantments that kept it aflight twisted by a demon of Corruption, and as I saw that great fortress topple behind enemy lines I knew every soul inside was dead. The High Lords and their retinues came down, joining the desperate fight, and sorcery lit up the dusty sky. Demons were bound, driven back, and at the heart of it all Akua led them sword in hand. A hand touched my shoulder and I near leapt out my skin, already halfway through a swing when I realized it was Roland. The Rogue Sorcerer was covered in soot, his boyish face drawn and tired.

“The Blade of Mercy’s dead,” he told me. “And the Skinchanger lost an arm. We were ambushed by the Prince of Bones and the Seelie.”

My grip tightened around my sword.

“Pull your band back,” I said. “Every Named corpse will be Revenant by tomorrow.”

“Kallia already gave the order,” Roland said. “The Blessed Artificer was wounded, but she’s still covering the retreat across the bridges. We need to get out now, Catherine.”

“I’m not leaving my soldiers behind,” I harshly said.

“Then lead them out of here quickly,” he replied. “The Procerans are mostly out of the city now. We’re about to have all the Scourges after us, not just two.”

That the Hawk had not shot at me or any of mine even once remained a private source of dread. If he hadn’t been after us, then who was it he’d been shooting at? I spat to the side, into a thick carpet of ash. Much as I disliked it, Roland was right: if we kept retreating with a measure of control, we’d get killed anyway. I was going to have to tell my soldiers to run, knowing they’d get shot in the back all the while. But it’ll be worse if we’re the last people in Keter, I thought. That’s suicide.

“I’ll give the orders,” I said. “Go tell Akua we need to get a move on.”

He nodded. I got hold of a captain, then worked my way up the chain to a tribune before I found no one higher. Everyone else was dead. My word was enough to get them moving, and it was exactly as brutal as I’d feared. The dead spilled forth uncontrollably with no shield wall to contain them, and as everyone made a run for the bridges panic began to spread. I made my way to the hill where I’d sent Roland and last seen Akua, but they were further ahead. Behind a half-collapsed house, arguing about something.

“I can still save-”

“Yourself,” the Rogue Sorcerer bit out. “Come on, we need to get-”

I saw the glint of the sun on metal, but neither of them did. I shouted in warning even as I pulled on Night, tossing it blindly, but the arrow went through the power like a knife through butter. Akua fell to her knees, a dark-feathered shaft having sprouted in her throat and gone through the sheet of mail.

“No,” I shouted, throwing up an illusion to hide them.

Another arrow fell blindly, missing both as Akua clawed at her throat and gasped. Roland put his hand on the arrow and met her eyes. She nodded. I did not have the heart to look, only hearing a wet gurgle. I almost tripped on the stones, falling to my knees next to her as I ripped away the mail and laid a hand on her bloody skin. Her throat had been shredded, now a red mess. I stopped the bleeding with a pulse of Night, but I could not heal. She could, though. Tracing runes in the air, eyes fluttering, she began to close the skin of her own throat. Then I felt the illusion being ripped through. Roland threw out a shimmering shield as I helped Akua up, drawing her close.

She still couldn’t talk, she’d lost some vocal cords.

“We run,” I said, pulling on Night and throwing another illusion.

Roland suddenly twitched, reaching behind me, and his arm lit up with half a dozen shades of green light shaped like leaves. I ducked, but it would have been too late if he’d not stepped in: the arrow that should have gone through the back of my neck was instead caught in the leaves, punching through them and the mail below to cut the side of his arm.

“Let’s,” the Rogue Sorcerer fervently agreed.

We legged it. Behind us I saw a flicker of movement and tossed black flame at it without breaking stride, forcing the Seelie to duck away, and we ran for my army and the relative safety of the press of the crowd. Curses broke houses to our sides as we moved, the Mantle revealing she’d not been far behind, and I forced back a whimper of pain as I kept running despite my bad leg. Akua gently pushed off my arm, fine running on her own, and my stomach loosened when finally we reached my soldiers. They parted way for us some, even as everyone tried to hurry onto the bridges even as the ramparts in the distance shot at my crossing men.

Roland stumbled and I caught him, glaring at the man who’d just elbowed him, but that was when I noticed how pale he’d gone. When he dropped to his knees, he didn’t get back up. My stomach dropped and I laid a hand on his neck.

“Roland?” I asked. “What is-”

“Poison,” he rasped. “Must be.”

I found it a moment later and went still. I knew this poison, I’d seen it before. It had been in Hune’s blood after the Varlet struck her, and the moment it’d touched Night it had turned into acid and killed her instantly.

“Akua,” I shouted, turning around, “I need you to-”

She was already at my side, magic wreathing her hand yellow, but her face was somber. I got up, yelling for a priest, but there were none. They’d already crossed, we were with the last of the rearguard. Roland had gone even paler and his breath was slowing.

“No,” I begged, kneeling back down. “Please.”

He smiled at me, grasping my hand.

“Charlatans run out of tricks,” Roland whispered. “Nothing to it.”

“You won’t,” I said. “We’ll-”

I looked at Akua, but she wouldn’t meet my eye. The breath went out of me.

“I don’t regret it,” Roland told me. “I don’t. Get them all home, Catherine.”

For the first time in years, I let out a sob. He drew me close.

“Beaumarais,” he murmured into my ear. “Bury me in Beaumarais. There’s a girl…”

He trailed off. His breath was difficult.

“I will,” I swore, because what else could I do?

“We did good,” Roland whispered, eyes closing. “We did…”

He did not breathe in again. It was over, all because of that small cut on his wrist. A single moment of inattention on my part, that was all it’d taken. I crossed the bridge in silence carrying his body on my back, Akua trailing behind me, swatting stones out of the sky. I went all the way through and up the hill, back to the camp and the tent I had come from. There I found my staff, stuck in the ground, and ripped it free. Eye closed, I sagged against it.

The battle was over.

It would take hours before we could count how many soldiers had died – at least twenty-five thousand, by the most conservative of reckonings – but some casualties were easier to count. Names began to filter in with the reports. Prince Rodrigo Trastanes of Orense had died in battle against the Grey Legion, keeping them off routing conscripts long enough to prevent collapse of the Proceran flank. The captain of Hakram’s retinue, Dag Clawtoe of the Howling Wolves, took the Hawk’s killing arrow for his Warlord. High Lady Takisha of Kahtan blew her own brains out rather than be taken by a demon of Corruption and High Lord Jaheem of Okoro incinerated himself along with three city blocks when he found himself surrounded.

Not all deaths were worth a story. The princess of Creusens was trampled to death by her own panicked horse, Red Ella – Aquiline’s second – was pushed off the wall and broke her neck. The senior legate of the Fourth Army was torched by mage fire from his own troops, which had misheard the order of their captain in the mayhem. War was one third heroism, one third horror and tone third the simple cruelty of luck.

Some losses were more keenly felt than others. Levant lost its steadiest hand when Careful Yannu was taken by the Prince of Bones, leaving it in disarray as it retreated from its failed assault. The First Army lost General Zola to a ritual bombardment that’d gotten past Hierophant and two layers of wards. It’d been a nasty curse and an even nastier way to die, taking half of the First’s senior staff with her. We were so lacking in officers there was talk that Aisha might need to take command, as one of the few old hands left.

When it came to Named, the amount of death was staggering. The Scourges had focused on them rather than racking up crowned scalps and it showed. We’d lost the Royal Conjurer, the Marauder, the Swaggering Duellist, the Balladeer, the Forlorn Paladin, the Blade of Mercy, the Anchorite, the Bloody Sword and the Pilfering Dicer. The Skinchanger had lost an arm, the Myrmidon a leg and the Stone Carver had been struck blind. I’d known few of them in any depth, so my grief was kept back for the one I had counted a friend.

But I swallowed my grief, got myself patched up and changed my clothes before downing as much herbal painkiller as I could. My day wasn’t done: the Gigantes were on their way, and that meant there were talks to be had before I could collapse into a bed and weep.

It felt more like a town assembly than a war council.

My preference for fewer people in the room was forcefully set aside by circumstance. Twice over, given that not only did we need a crowd’s worth of people but we did not have a room that could fit the Gigantes. The gathering took place outside in an abandoned drilling field, the fate of Calernia to be determined over beaten earth besides training dummies. Chairs were dragged in, wards layered one after another by half a dozen different mages under Hierophant’s watching eye and then we sent for everyone that wasn’t already there.

Every Proceran prince left had dragged their hides there, led by First Prince Rozala Malanza and the unofficial second most powerful man left in the Principate: Otto Redcrown. Frederic sat there wearing a pristine doublet in his family colours, with him a few familiar faces. Beatrice of Hainaut and Arsene of Bayeux. Others I did not know as well: the rulers of Aisne, Orne, Arans, Lyonis and Segovia. The absence of Procer’s southeast boded badly for Rozala’s later reign, the four principalities that had effectively abandoned the rest of Calernia forming a territory as large as Levant and significantly richer. Adding to the crowd were the most prominent fantassins captains, most of them having fallen behind the most powerful among them: Captain-General Catalina Ferreiro of the Liga Bandera, a handsome scarred woman I’d fought with at the Battle of Hainaut.

In the back of their gathering, still a princess in name, Cordelia Hasenbach sat. Her face was calm, but those blue eyes troubled. They had good reason to be, I conceded with a grimace.

The League of Free Cities gathered around Empress Basilia of Aenia like a pack of birds huddling for warmth, save for the exhausted-looking general from Bellerophon and the aggressively unremarkable minder stand behind him. Hopefully the kanenas wouldn’t execute the woman, things were tense enough as it was. First Magister – for life – Zoe Ixioni and Princess Zenobia Vasilakis, Basilia’s vassals and closest allies, sat to her sides. The philosopher-priest from Atalante, a short man with a wildly unkempt beard, instead stuck closer to Secretary Nestor and the newly-elected Exarch of Penthes, a nervously skinny young man by the name of Leontios Notaris. They were in the finest mood here, however grim that height: their victory out on the Ossuary with dwarven support had been a crushing one.

The Levantines had brought captains as well as Blood, but that’d not been entirely the choice of the last remaining lords and lady of Levant. Lord Yannu Marave had no issue and his designated successor was in Levant. The most influential captains of Alava had come in the stead of their fallen lord, forcing the lordlings and Lord Moro of the Brigand’s Blood to follow suit. They were a brawny and bearded lot, fierce of appearance and decked in colourful paint, but Careful Yannu’s empty seat seemed to swallow up space at the heart of them. Even Aquiline and Razin seemed a little lost at his absence: they’d been foes in some way, but Yannu Marave had been the Dominion’s leading commander for most of the war against Keter.

The Confederation of Praes, artfully arranged around Malicia, had brought not only the Black Knight in her function as High Marshal but also Lady Nahiza Serrif as the ranking mage and the surviving gaggle of High Lords. Leering old Abreha Mirembe had it made it, as had Sargon Sahelian and venomous old Whither, but the High Lady of Kahtan and the High Lord of Okoro left empty seats. The High Lord of Nok was wounded but alive and had sent his daughter to sit in his stead. Their like was still glittering with gold and jewels, but the rest of the Praesi were anything but. The Warlord had brought with him the chiefs of his most powerful clans, which Hakram was turning into an informal council. Oghuz the Lame of the Red Shields and Troke Snaketooth for the Blackspears, Hegvor Allspeak for the Split Trees and Arban Twelve-Fingers for the Graven Bones.

My own lot were not so numerous in comparison, though we did have some famous names among us. Marshal Juniper and all my generals were the core of it, with Masego and Akua requested to be present to lend their knowledge. Vivienne was here as my successor, Indrani because she was certain to face the Hawk and though Hanno and Ishaq could not really be considered of ‘mine’ they sat with me as befitting captains of Above and Below subordinate to my office of Warden. I stood in the back of my delegation, draped in the Mantle of Woe and with two great crows on my shoulders.

The Firstborn did not send anyone but General Rumena and my two scribes. They did not need to: as the defence force of the camps, they had yet to try the walls. Their losses had been the lightest of us all, though that would not last. We had been saving them up for the last push, and that was fast approaching. The dwarves had earned the right to have a seat at the table with the foodstuffs promised, then earned it again by fighting alongside the League on the field today. Yet they preferred keeping their distance, sending only the Herald of the Deeps and Seeker Balasi flanked by a pair of armoured guards in heavy plate that covered their faces.

The last, but not the least, was a single man. Kreios the Riddle-Maker was taller than any of the Gigantes I had seen by a dozen feet, his thick skin a pale brown and his hair long. Unlike what I had seen of his kind, he had long brown locks but shaved his face – though not recently, by the looks of the stubble. His eyes were what drew the attention, large pools of a grey so pale it almost seemed white. They were steady and unblinking, as if there was nothing in the world that could possibly concern him. Given that the Titan sat higher than some towers, even seated with folded legs, I could believe it. Though he did not move and had not spoken since the Witch of the Woods came to stand at his side, it still felt like he was looming over us all.

First Prince Rozala rose to her feet, not even the generous cut of her tunic enough to hide how close to giving birth she was getting.

“I will begin by giving formal thanks to the Titanomachy,” Rozala Malanza said, and then to the surprise of some offered a bow to Kreios. “If you had not lent your aid, we might not now be alive to thank you.”

Some of her countrymen looked aghast at a First Prince bowing to a giant, but others were openly approving. The Titan studied her, then bowed his head back.

“Worthy causes ever find friends,” the old gold rumbled.

He didn’t mean to sound so deep, I decided, to have the sound of his voice resonating in our bones. But then did humans mean to breathe strong enough to move flies?

“An honourable sentiment,” Rozala replied, sounding sincere. “In its spirit, may I ask what manner of spell was used to move us through time?”

Kreios glanced at the Witch, whose face of painted stone looked sternly at us all.

“It was not movement in the sense you mean,” the Witch of the Woods told us. “A moment was severed from the flow and, once separate, made to begin anew. It was then joined anew to the flow.”

Hierophant leaned forward.

“You mean that we lost an hour compared to the rest of Creation,” Masego said. “Instead we repeated the same hour twice.”

Kreios watched him.

“You have good eyes, Cutter,” the god praised, “and witness much.”

“There is so much to see,” Hierophant smiled.

They might have gotten started on the magic talk if left to it, I figured, but we couldn’t spare the time for that.

“Can you do it again?” I bluntly asked.

It was the Witch that answered me.

“Not without erasing most of the Kingdom of the Dead,” Antigone said. “It will be centuries before severing causality here should be considered again.”

Mhm, I’d figured it would be something like that. Power that useful never came without a price. An hour for a few centuries of silence, huh. Creation was more fragile than I’d thought, or perhaps more hard-handed in erasing mistakes. I’d moved the conversation back to practicalities, which had been my objective, so I didn’t step into it again. Aquiline was the one who first put the cards on the table.

“Though we have taken great casualties,” the Lady of Tartessos said, “I believe we all know the truth: if we do not strike tomorrow, we will lose this war.”

There were grim nods of agreement, and then the inevitable hesitation. People wanted to wait longer, to let the men rest and finish healing the wounded. To make new plans to invest the city. It was Hakram that put an end to it.

“We learned the lay of the Dead King’s defences today,” the Warlord growled, “at great cost to many of us. If we wait, we throw those lives away: every hour that passes, the dead build new dangers to ruin us. We cannot wait.”

There was a hear, hear from Otto Reitzenberg that had a few Procerans cheering, Levantines loudly voicing their own approval. Eyes went to me, but I kept silent. It was Juniper who spoke for the Army of Callow, voicing her agreement.

“We can’t wait,” the Hellhound grunted, “but let’s not kid ourselves about our chances either. If we don’t have anything for the shifting city and that death trap in the inner city, then there’s no point in attacking.”

There the dwarves stirred.

“I believe I know where the ritual lies,” the Herald of the Deeps said. “Though I cannot stop it from beginning, I would lead my soldiers underground to end it.”

There were some nods of appreciation.

“Keter’s Due will begin to be fed into the secondary arrays long before the city begins to move,” Akua said. “We need a way to deal with it first.”

“The leading issue is the entropy trap,” Chancellor Alaya agreed. “We cannot take the Hellgate and reach the Dead King without being able to push past the second wall.”

“I will silence the power,” Kreios the Riddle-Maker stated. “When soldiers reach this wall, I will go with them and keep this trap dormant.”

There was a moment of silence, none quite daring to speak up after that. I cleared my throat.

“Then we have the bare bones of a plan,” I said. “We will assault the city again, with Lord Kreios allowing us to push past the inner wall while the Herald and his army strike at the Dead King’s ritual.”

“That still means we have to take Keter again,” Lord Moro of the Brigand’s Blood grimaced. “The Enemy will await us, and there are no bridges left. We will depend entirely on sorcery to cross.”

“No,” General Rumena mildly said. “This is to be the last battle, yes? Then the Firstborn will lead the charge. All can follow in our wake.”

It was enough of a boast that it had to explain after, but fewer questions were asked than one might assume. It had not gone unnoticed that I had not contradicted the drow general. An hour and change passed as tactics were argued and then the attribution of Named. The greatest change was that there would be no army sent out to do battle on the Ossuary: there would be no other chance of winning after this. We were all in, do or die. Remaining in my seat, I closed my eye and sunk into my Name. Let it wash over me, hands reaching into the void as I exerted my will to See. And I found it, exactly what I was looking for. It was right under my hand, almost eager to be taken up.

The last stories were falling into place, huh. Even Fate believed it would all come down to tomorrow.

When I opened my eye I found the Riddle-Maker staring at me. Hierophant had, Gods bless his soul, stepped between us in a gesture that could be taken as protective. The Titan wished me no harm, though. I knew exactly what it was that’d drawn his attention.

“You have stolen an eye from the Intercessor,” the Titan said.

Silence fell, all other conversation dying. I reached for my pipe and took it in hand, stuffing it full of wakeleaf with well-practiced movements. I passed my palm over the mouth and pulled on a shard of Night, lighting it, and pulled deep. I let the burn linger in my lungs, the acrid pleasure of it, and spewed out the pale smoke. I was even nice enough not to do it on the back of Juniper’s neck, merciful queen that I was.

“Taken,” I corrected in a drawl. “It’s been a habit since I was a girl, I’ll confess.”

The old god seemed unmoved by my words.

“And what did you find?” he asked.

“We’re about to have a visitor,” I smiled.

I wasn’t tied into the wards, but I knew the mages that were: and each and every one of them shivered. A heartbeat later a silhouette stood in the middle of the circle. Tall and slim and androgynous, they had a spellwood sword at their hip and a long green cloak. Smoothly the unsheathed the sword, and though half the crowd reached for weapons I did not move. I pulled at my pipe, eye unblinking as the Emerald Sword plunged it into the earth. It met my gaze, face expressionless.

“We acknowledge the debt of the prince and the tower, Warden,” the elf said. “We will honour the bargain struck.”

I spat out smoke, making them wrinkle their nose, and inclined my head in a nod. They had better. I’d opened them a gate into Twilight from the room in the Tower they’d been stuck in, surrounded by goblinfire on all sides, at a price. When the time came for the Dead King to be brought at an end, the Emerald Swords would lend their swords to the cause. It’d taken me long enough to get them to acknowledge I had a right to be bargained with that I had gotten late to the bottom of the Tower and the tragedies it had in store for me, but it had been worth it. I had seen the might of the Emerald Swords, in Ater.

They would make a difference.

“I expected no less,” I replied.

They didn’t bother to answer me, or even address anyone else here. In a blink of an eye they were gone, the only proof they’d ever been there the dozen blades that’d been pulled and the length of spellwood that had been thrust into the ground. Eyes were still on me, but all I offered was a friendly smile. Always one more trick, that was the way. And I wasn’t even finished pulling on that particular thread. I rose to my feet, then stretched and cracked my bones.

“I believe this war council can come at an end,” I said.

“Do you have somewhere else to be, Your Excellency?” Ishaq drily asked.

“I’m going to start a cooking fire and find a stiff drink,” I frankly replied, then cast a look at the rest of them.

Thoughtful looks, some amused ones and a few offended.

“Tomorrow’s our wager with Fate,” I said. “Make sure you’re ready to face it.”

As for me, I knew exactly who I wanted to spend my last few hours before the plunge with.