A Perverted Path to Victory

Chona

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The cannon that Shale had brought them to was absurd. Chona had seen some pretty big guns before. She’d been around when Tinvel and Hurlish were testing cannon enchantments, trying to improve what was already the best weaponry the world had to offer. The thickest she’d seen were the short 32-pounders that had eventually gone onto the Waverake, but as thick as they’d been, they were short and stubby things next to the longer-ranged 24-pounders. Hurlish had always said that the material required to make a gun that didn’t sacrifice diameter for length was too much to justify.

Until recently, apparently.

Shale’s cannon looked like someone at the foundries had misread a decimal point on the design, producing something far too massive to excuse its own existence. Chona’s head could have fit down the muzzle without either ear touching the sides, and if her shoulders had been just a touch thinner, she could have crawled into the barrel until she was out of sight entirely. Even more interestingly, it seemed that despite the comical interior diameter of its barrel, the gun itself was still thinner than its fellows, speaking proportionally. Other cannons were built with the black roughness of wrought iron or the golden sheen of fine bronze. Both materials had been foregone here in favor of replacement by slick, unvarnished steel, polished until she could see her curved reflection twisted over the breech of the gun.

The behemoth of a cannon was sitting on a turntable set into the concrete, allowing its muzzle to sweep across a slot that had been cut in the fortification’s walls, giving it an arc of fire that easily overlapped the fort’s adjacent corner bastions. An entire recoil system had been built onto that pedestal, thick rails allowing the gun to fly backward with every shot. She pitied whoever would be charged with shoving the thing back into place.

“Here’s hoping she can take what we throw at her,” Shale said, moving up to the muzzle of the gun with a light, happy step, as if on the verge of bursting into a song and dance. She slid the package of maybe-guncotton snugly into the mouth of the barrel, then hopped over to retrieve a massive iron slug from a nearby chest of ammo, hefting it up with both hands. Shale shot Tinvel a grin, winking. “It’s a 64-pounder, in case you were wondering. Well, it would be 64 pounds if we were using iron, instead of lead. This sucker’s a lot heavier.”

“How did you get Sara to let you build it?” He asked, moving forward to inspect the cannon. He put his hands to it reverently, sliding them along the slick steel. “I thought she banned the construction of any cannons over 32 pounds of shot-weight. Said it was too resource inefficient, that we’d be better off working on making our smaller cannons even more high-powered.”

“She did,” Shale said, tossing the massive tapered lead slug up onto her shoulder, setting it into the muzzle, which was at eye-level with her. She grunted as the lead shot slid home. “But she’s been out of town for a while. And it turns out Parliament likes getting to tell the news paper ‘I helped build us a bigass gun’ a lot more than Sara does.”

Chona glanced at David, wondering at his reaction. Surely if Sara had forbidden the construction of this gun, he wouldn’t approve of this monstrous thing’s existence.

He caught her eye, then shrunk slightly into himself, smiling sheepishly.

“It’s based on the British RML 64-pounder coastal defense cannon,” he said, chagrined. “I always wanted to see one fire.”

“So you helped Shale build this thing?” Chona said, more a statement than a question.

“Well, I didn’t help her get the expense approved by parliament…”

“But you didn’t show up to stop it, either.”

“No...”

“And you gave the designs to First Union Foundry, because there’s no way this is a HOT gun. Hurlish wouldn’t build it if Sara said no.”

“I mean…”

“I won’t be the one to tell her,” Chona said, ignoring Tinvel and Shale’s shop talk as they prepared the gun, “If you don’t make me write that paper on the development of standardized units of measurement.”

David swallowed nervously. “...Deal.”

“Huh? What’s up?” Tinvel asked, pulling himself away from the gun to look back at Chona, David, and Affe.

“Nepotism and corruption,” Affe replied airly, still standing slightly apart from their little group.

“Don’t worry about it,” Chona said, giving her fellow mage a sharp glare.

Shale hopped away from the gun, a smile on her face that was far too girlish and giddy to fit the scarred soldier she’d become. She clapped her hands and rubbed them together, a touch of something manic entering her eyes.

“Alright. I’ve got five silver on the bastard blowing up. Who’s in?”

“You’re betting that it will?” Tinvel asked, aghast. “How expensive was that gun? It has to weigh five tons! It’s a work of art! I bet that’s the best cannon that anyone except Hurlish has made, and you’re going to blow it up? At least let us put some enchantments on it to-”

“I’ll put up five silver,” Affe interrupted. “I’ve practiced some healing magic down at First Union Foundries. They’re not up to Hurlish’s standards, but they do good work.”

“I’m not putting down a bet,” David said. “Sara would kill me. But I think it’ll be fine. If it behaves like normal guncotton, that charge is actually undersized.”

“You said it’s not behaving like regular guncotton, though,” Chona reminded him.

“Which is why we’re testing with an undersized charge first.”

While the bets were placed around him, Tinvel turned around to stare mournfully at the cannon, as if taking its magnificence one last time.

“C’mon,” Chona said, clapping him on the shoulder so she could guide him away. “I’m sure the gun’ll be fine.”

“Shale doesn’t think so.”

Chona eyed the woman, who was humming happily while she walked around a corner, unwinding a long string as she went. Chona was starting to realize that her scars, those running up her arms and occasionally dotting her ribcage, matched the shrapnel wounds Chona had seen on surrendered Sporaton peasantry in Tulian hospitals. Considering the fact that no Tulian citizen had ever been on the receiving end of gunfire and Shale had a clear tendency to personally test new weapons? Chona could guess where the wounds had come from.

“I… don’t think you should take her word on that,” Chona told Tinvel. “Or much of anything, really.”

They rounded the corner together, following Shale until her length of string had been stretched as far as it could go. They were about twenty feet past the corner of the triangular bastion when they stopped.

Shale dropped into a crouch, pressing her free hand to an ear. “You guys bring any healing potions?”

“No. Why would we?” Tinvel asked.

“I’m guessing for the hearing damage,” Chona said, crouching down as well, pressing both wads of wax into her ears, then putting her palms overtop. “Or if it really goes bad, the big bloody holes. How’s your healing magic, Tin?”

“As good as yours.”

“Damn.”

“Don’t worry,” Affe said, joining their huddled group. “I’ve managed to heal entire paper cuts all on my own. You’ll all be safe in my hands.”

“Y’ready back there?” Shale asked.

“Would you stop if we weren’t?” Chona asked.

Shale jerked the string.

Chona felt as if she had been struck by sledgehammers on all sides, some angry mob trying to crush her head to the size of a grape. After that first instant of shock, the pain reversed, like a hundred hooks attached to plates of her skull and tugging, hard, trying to turn her mind inside out. The concussion was so great that even beneath thick gobs of wax and her tightly-pressed palms she was still subjected to twin needles digging into her ears, grinding against the meat of her brain.

Before she could straighten herself out, a noxious cloud of smoke washed over her. Instead of the white, almost colorless smoke of blackpowder, the cannon had apparently belched something black as the night, a fogbank that was as thick, if not thicker, than anything she’d seen from other guns, but without the the acrid sulfur scent she’d come to expect. It smelled like the world’s largest lantern, in fact, which was so unexpected it actually served to worsen her disorientation. As she reeled backward, falling against someone behind her, she found herself unable to see more than a few inches in front of her face, lost in the darkness.

Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the cloud dissipated. It was as if whatever substance that composed the fogbank had reached the end of its life, vanishing even without the aid of wind to disperse it. Chona blinked her confusion at the suddenly revealed world, working her jaw back and forth to try and work out the persistent aching which had settled in her bones.

“Yes!” Shale’s muffled voice cried ecstatically. “Oh, gods that was wonderful!”

Chona slowly stood as she watched Shale rush forward, disappearing around the corner. A moment later, there came a cry of dismay.

“Shale?” Tinvel called, keeping one hand on the wall as he also went forward. Chona followed after him, leaving Affe to help up Professor Brown, who had been knocked over either by the blast or his own shock. “What’s the matter? Is the cannon fine?”

“Damn it all, it is!” The woman swore. “Pretty as the day it arrived!”

Chona and Tinvel turned the corner just in time to watch the woman run up to the smoking barrel and throw her arms around it, pressing her lips to the steaming barrel. There was an audible hiss as her flesh began to burn, something that the woman didn’t seem to notice.

Oh, Chona thought. That’s how she got those scars.

“And why, exactly, are you mad that the cannon didn’t explode?” Affe asked, coming around the corner with Professor Brown, who’d belatedly managed to recover from his shock.

Shale pulled away the cannon almost reluctantly, facing Affe with a wide, sloped grin. “Because if the gun burst, that’d mean the new stuff’s even more powerful than we hoped it was,” she said, bouncing excitedly on the tips of her toes. New boils were already beginning to rise on her lips. “It’d be a damn shame to lose the cannon, but imagine what we’d have gotten from powder that damn fine!”

“It’s not powder, it’s guncotton,” Professor Brown said, moving forward. He crouched down at the base of the cannon, pointing. “And don’t get too disappointed. Look here.”

Chona joined the rest at the professor’s side, hands on her knees as she followed his gesture.

The cannon had recoiled all the way to its mounting rail’s stops, where a thick wedge of steel had been placed to prevent it from running off the edge. While the six-inch-thick stops were unharmed, the mounting rails themselves had been bent up, twisted into the shape of a longbow. The cannon had recoiled so hard that steel rails the width of Chona’s wrist had very nearly been snapped in two.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Shale muttered, dropping to her knees. She skittered underneath the cannon on all fours, inspecting the mounting system. Chona flicked wary eyes up at the multi-ton behemoth that the woman was now beneath. The one which had just had its mountings nearly ripped out of place.

Well, if she gets crushed to death by that cannon, I think she’ll have died happy.

“Damn, damn, damn,” Shale cursed, running her hands along the rails. “No chance in every hell we’re getting that sorted any time soon. Guess that’s the only shot we get to make today.”

“That was always going to be the only shot today,” Professor Brown said, forcing himself up off knees with a few huffy breaths. “I only brought the one bag of guncotton.”

Shale’s head whipped around. “What?” She asked, glaring. “Why? What if it had worked? What would you have expected me to do then?”

Professor Brown sighed tiredly. “Whatever your normal job is, Shale. I wasn’t going to make more of the stuff before I even knew it could work at scale. And no, this one test doesn’t mean that the guncotton is ready for mass-production. We need to see if it’s consistent, too. And I really, really didn’t like that black smoke. There should have been next to no smoke, and it shouldn’t have lingered anywhere near that long.”

“It cleaned up pretty quick, I thought,” Chona said. “A lot quicker than blackpowder smoke does, anyway.”

“But it shouldn’t be black,” Professor Brown insisted, moving around to the front of the cannon. “And even if there was going to be black smoke, it shouldn’t have been nearly that much. And why did it disappear all at once like that? It’s almost like it’s an ongoing chemical reaction still occurring in the air. If we didn’t have healing potions here, I’d be worried I just gave us all cancer.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, uh. Malignant tumors? Uncontrollable growths inside the body that end up killing you.”

Chona shook her head. “You know, with how much you talk about how great your old world was, there was some really awful stuff.”

“You’re right,” Professor Brown said, leaning up to see down the muzzle. “And the worst part is, I’m helping to bring some of the worst parts of that world over here. Hey, could someone get me a ladder? There’s a ton of residue in here. I want to take some samples.”

Tinvel went off with Affe to locate a ladder and some vaguely sterile way of storing the material, while Shale went up to join Professor Brown in his inspection of the cannon’s interior.

Chona, meanwhile, went up to the edge of the fort, stepping up onto the ledge which let soldiers fire their rifles down onto an approaching force.

She was looking for the impact site of the metal slug. It hadn’t been one of the explosive shells she knew the alchemists had been cooking up. Just a solid lump of lead molded into a cone-tipped cylinder, a giant version of a rifled musket’s minié balls. She lined herself up with the direction the cannon had been aimed, slowly sweeping her gaze up.

And up.

And up.

And still further up.

She eventually found it– or she thought she did, anyway. It was a dark blot on the bright landscape that was very, very far away. As her eyes focused on it, she started to pick out details. A long gash had been ripped out of a hillside, dozens of yards of grass turned to mulch as the lead projectile had struck the ground once, skimmed upward, then hit the base of the hill, shattering into uncountable pieces. Chona and Tinvel had been the one to scout the location for this fort from the air, and if that was the hill she thought it was, it was just over two miles away. Scaling it out in her head, that meant the lead slug, without a single ounce of explosive, had created a cone of destruction at least fifty feet across and over a hundred feet long. If there had been an army on that hill, it might have killed hundreds.

Chona let out a low, impressed whistle. Maybe the Governess really had been wrong to say no to guns this size. Sure, Chona knew this was an ideal scenario, with the first impact probably causing the round to tumble so it struck the hill side-on, spreading its shrapnel further than would normally be possible, but still. She didn’t think it would’ve made her a coward to admit that if she was some hapless Sporaton peasant getting fired at by that thing, she’d throw her spear down and run after the first shot.

Not that she’d actually admit that out loud, of course.

“I don’t care how much you want it,” Professor Brown was saying behind her, “the guncotton production is not going to the alchemists until we’re sure the reaction is stable.”

“Y’said it’s a semi-linear increase in energy, but not fully exponential,” Shale snapped back. “The gun was only elevated to thirty degrees and it still exceeded the maximum range of our projections by a factor of fifty percent. With that kind of output, I don’t godsdamn care if there’s two-fold error bars on every load! The trajectory profiles will be so flat I’ll hardly have to teach my gunners how to aim.”

Chona’s brow furled. She turned around to watch the argument, confirming for herself that it really was Shale talking.

“And no, before you start,” the Artillery Lieutenant continued, “there’s no way that what you just gave me was an underpowered load. The next load won’t blow up the gun, either. It’s more consistent than you’re appreciating, it just performs different in large volumes. Maybe your early tests ran into problems because of uneven oxygenation, Dave. You didn’t contain them in anything, so the burn could easily have run uneven. And I ran the numbers on your old world’s shell weights and engagement ranges that you gave me. That so-called guncotton is approaching early triple base propellants, maybe even damn well exceeding them. It’s no shimose powder, but it’s sure not the guncotton you promised me.”

“Which is all the more reason why we need to test it more, not less,” Professor Brown growled back, actually stepping closer to the shorter woman. Chona had never seen him this confrontational in all the months she’d known him. “You’ve got one data point. one! That’s not enough to make a safety briefing on, much less a range table! If you start shoving anything and everything down a gun barrel and lighting it up, you’re going to get people killed.”

“You want more data points? Then get me the damn guncotton so I can test it!” Shale shouted, throwing a hand out at the cannon. “You want me to test it safely? I’ll test it safely. I’ll pull the trigger from across the whole fort, if you want me to. I’ll clear out every worker on that half of the hill. But if you don’t think performance that nearly matches Krupp guns isn’t worth chasing, I don’t know why Sara put you in charge of a single project, much less one as important as this one.”

“I’m the only reason you even know how to have this argument!” Professor Brown said, shocking Chona and Shale both by stabbing his finger into the shorter woman’s collarbone. “I may have taught you the math, may have given you some chemistry basics, but that doesn’t mean you’ve got a degree. I do! I’ve read what happens when people like you fuck up! You don’t know what can happen, but I do.”

“I’ve commanded an artillery group in battle, Dave. I’ve seen what these guns can do.”

“But you haven’t seen what can happen when they’re made wrong. What can happen to the people making your cannons. This world can be different from mine. It has to be different! You don’t know how many factories burned down, how many people’s arms and legs got torn off, how many people died young because of chemical exposure! You want to risk yourself doing stupid shit, go for it! Ride the cannon the next time you fire it! But until I know this is safe for the alchemists to make– and those alchemists are students, Shale, they’re kids– you’re not getting an ounce out of me that I don’t think is safe.”

Shale scoffed, rolling her eyes, but Chona thought the anger in her voice, while still present, had lost a touch of its self-righteousness.

“You’re not handing explosives to little kids, Dave. You’re giving it to soldiers. They know what they’re here for, and they know how dangerous it is. I’m not going to get someone killed just because I’m horny for fancy new cannons.”

“Are you sure? Are you sure you won’t?” Professor Brown folded his arms over his chest, still looking down on her. “We need to know ignition parameters, stability, shock vulnerability, and a million other things before I approve this stuff for mainline production. Sara may not have given me a fancy job title like you, but I’m in charge of Tulian’s chemistry. All of it, and I mean all of it, goes through me. If you want any kind of gunpowder, blackpowder or guncotton, you won’t get it unless I say so.”

“Fine!” Shale spat, stomping away. “But you’re not going to hold off for too long. If we don’t start stockpiling everything we can get, soon, the Sporatons will have us blocked in. And I don’t care how many planes you can fly over us; you’ll never be able to drop us enough guncotton to keep the guns running.” Shale paused at the corner of the bastion, one hand on the wall as she stared back. “You’re trying to save your chemists from some nasty burns, Dave. But I’m trying to save my troop’s lives. Don’t leave it too long.”

As Shale finally disappeared, Professor Brown’s defiant posture deflated in a long, groaning sigh.

“Wow,” Chona said, walking up to her teacher. “I heard rumors you two argued, but that was…”

“More than you expected?”

“Just a bit.”

Professor Brown drew himself back up again, rolling his shoulders. “I wish she wasn’t such a dang good student. A good gunner, too. It’d be way easier to tell Sara I won’t work with her if she was bad at her job, too. But she just gets it. The math, the chemistry.” Professor Brown glanced at Chona from the corner of his eyes. “I’m probably not supposed to tell you this, but her Artillery Soldier Class? It got her something that helps her with the math. As far as Evie, Vesta, and Garen’s research could find, that’s pretty much the first time there’s been a recorded ‘Soldier’ Class that got something to help them with math. Only accountants and the like got math Skills before.”

Chona blanched, pulling away a little bit. “Oh. Ew. Yeah, you shouldn’t have told me that. You didn’t do anything with her, right?”

Professor Brown choked. “What? No! No, of course I didn’t!”

“Well, I mean, if you know her Class, and even one of her Skills, you must be pretty close-”

“It’s- it’s relevant information! It’s important to what we’re doing! Why do you people have such an obsession with keeping your Class secret? If I had one, I’d tell anyone anything they want to know about it.”

“If you ever ask me a single thing about my Class, I'll slap you as hard as I can.”

“Yeah, yeah, point taken, you’re all privacy freaks,” Professor Brown said, smoothing back the sides of his hair, which had still been tousled after the blast. “Anyway. Shale’s not so bad when you really get down to it. She’s just… obsessed with getting her hands on every kind of weapon I can cook up. If a screaming match is what it takes to pull her back every now and then, I’ll do it. No one else is as good at what she does.”

Chona shrugged. “You’re in charge, not me. But I think if I had to deal with someone like her every day, one of us wouldn’t be going into the next week alive.”

“Which is why I’m glad you and Affe have been keeping your distance,” Professor Brown said. Before Chona could offer a retort, Tulian University’s second best mage appeared as if summoned, holding a small step ladder.

“This should be good enough to get a swab inside the barrel, right?” He asked, holding the ladder out. “Tinvel’s still looking for something that can carry the sample without too much contamination.”

“Yeah, that should work,” Professor Brown said, moving back to the cannon’s mouth with the ladder. “Here, one of you two, give me a light in here. I want to check for interior damage.”

“Still can’t cast a spell yourself?” Chona asked, snapping her fingers to summon a small ball of light to float beside the Professor’s head.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he grumbled, his voice echoing as he leaned inside the mouth of the cannon. “Now, one of you take out a notebook. I’m going to dictate a description of the natural state of the residue. Actually, no, you’re just going to argue over who has to do it. Both of you take the notes, so you don’t miss anything.”

Chona sighed, pulling a small notebook from her pocket and uncapping her fountain pen. She couldn’t wait to be back in the air.

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Mui Thom

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The political games continued.

Sara had spent a few scant minutes relaxing in the cool cellar of some wealthy individual, the General and his staff stuffed into the dark, cramped space, then had announced her troops should be ready. General Borek had asked what they were ready for. Sara had been confused. Were his troops not ready to begin their training? Mere minutes after arriving at a more comfortable meeting place, Sara was once again urging the General back onto his feet.

Emerging from the dark wine cellar and traipsing back through the city’s gates, Mui found a field transformed. The Tulian soldiers had organized their metal steeds– bicycles, or ‘bikes’ for short– into neat rows, hundreds of them glittering under the sun. Beside each bike laid opened crates and scattered straw, sacks of powder and ammunition retrieved from amongst more mundane camping supplies. Most of the straw, which had been used as padding in the wooden crates, had already been gathered up into dozens of neat piles placed at regular intervals, clusters of mercenary soldiers stationed exactly one hundred yards away from each bundle.

While Sara had dithered with General Borek, who had been regaling the Chosen with what comforts the city had worthy of a woman like her, Sara’s troops had been constructing an entire firing range.

The woman herself, never one to show the world a mask she didn’t carefully select, idly scraped her boots at the edge of the city’s wooden drawbridge, mumbling to herself as she counted figures off on her fingers.

“We have enough muskets to train a couple thousand troops at a time,” Sara eventually said, without turning around to face General Borek. “I was told by the Adjutant that the Powdered Lead would be attached to a force roughly equal to that which violated Tulian territory earlier this year. Fifty thousand or so, I believe? We won’t be able to train them all before we must march, so we need to start as soon as possible.”

Mui listened to this from the rear of the bundle of dignitaries, soldiers, and attendants, as was proper. While technically attached to the Powdered Lead, Mui was still a citizen of the Empire. His role as a glorified interpreter did not grant him the requisite rank to speak without being spoken to. While Sara would most certainly protest vehemently at the injustice of this, at this particular moment it did provide Mui a unique perspective he would not have otherwise had:

The sight of a Chosen’s lie unfolding.

Before Sara had even begun to bemoan the lack of adequate training in General Borek’s troops, Evie was stepping forward, tucking a loose strand of hair into her braids as she straightened her spine. She was readying herself to respond to the matter before Sara had even broached it; clearly a plan they had discussed beforehand.

“We do not need to train thousands of soldiers here and now,” Evie said, stepping between the General and Sara. Her Class-granted Skills as a Diplomat meant that, despite having spent only two months learning Kemari, she was nearing perfect fluency. “Only their sergeants and other commanding officers, who can in turn train the others. The general quality of lessons will of course suffer, as these new instructors will not have true combat experience to draw upon, but such is the way of things. Our weapon’s superiority shall make up the difference.” Evie looked out at the field with a pinched expression, as if displeased by something. “And regardless, we have brought only some two thousand muskets. Until Imperial industries prove capable of replicating our weapons, I suspect the rate of training will outstrip our equipment. When do you intend to march, and with what composition of troops?”

General Borek, having been thoroughly warned by Mui that any form of ignoring, dismissing, or otherwise disrespecting Evie would provoke Sara beyond the point of reason, smoothly turned his attention to the short feline.

“The army I command, and which the Powdered Lead will be accompanying, is even now being supplemented from the city and its surrounding villages. We are attempting to stock it with as high a percentage of volunteers as possible, as the Adjutant requested, but conscription is still necessary. At this moment, Battulen’s garrison is composed of three mixed brigades, mostly trained with pike and spear, though a scattered few hundred can claim some skill in archery. They number fifteen thousand, half of which have participated in at least one battle. They are trained in basic formation marching, and can respond to most battlefield orders with a reasonable degree of alacrity.”

“A garrison of fifteen thousand trained soldiers is remarkable, General Borek,” Evie said, sounding almost genuine. “But if you intend to raise an army of fifty thousand, there are more factors to consider than sheer numbers. While the decision is ultimately yours, I would recommend discontinuing conscription entirely. Bayoneted muskets may be integrated near-seamlessly into traditional infantry divisions, but the same cannot be said for artillery. If your army grows too large, either we will be forced to ineffectively distribute our cannons amongst their number, robbing us of the devastating effect of a central battery, or we will be leaving large swathes of troops unsheltered on our flanks. Any formation of troops beyond the protective umbrella of our artillery will become the foremost target of our enemy.”

General Borek’s jaw tightened. “You and your wife oft speak highly of your muskets, Commander Evie. Perhaps understandably, if the reports I have received are without exaggeration. But for all the accolades heaped upon these ‘muskets’, you seem far more enamored by your artillery. It is as if you think a mere handful of soldiers armed with these weapons may knock aside any number of enemies. If you truly believe its inclusion is worth cutting my army’s size by a two-thirds, I am most eager to see a demonstration of its power.” The General scowled at the field of Tulian mercenaries. “Yet I do not see a single object here that meets the description I was provided. Only muskets. Where is your artillery?”

“They should arrive shortly,” Evie said. “They cannot travel with the same speed of our bicycle-mounted infantry. That is a problem we are, of course, working on resolving. In the north our cannons were normally horse or mule-drawn, but as you well know, these animals would be too tempting a target for jungle predators. I am under the impression that you have access to cavalry better suited for the Imperial landscape?”

General Borek chuckled. “If you wish to turn Krapeu into beasts of burden, you are welcome to try. I would advise you to muzzle them with bands of iron first, however.”

Mui’s mind darkened at the mention of the krapeu. The mounts of elite Warriors, they resembled a crocodile which had the long legs of a racehound. While lacking both the speed and stamina of a northern cavalry horse, they were a weapon unto themselves. Their massive jaws could take a man’s head, shoulders, and ribcage off in a single bite. They were also so territorial that they respected no one other than the lone rider who had managed to master them, and had to be stabled with blindfolds and noseplugs so they would not be driven into a frenzy by the presence of their fellow krapeu.

It had been a Warrior and his Krapeu which had killed half of Mui’s squad in the battle of the Tulian fields; he had no desire to work beside the temperamental beasts.

“No matter,” Evie said. “We have our own developments in progress to speed their movement.” Evie turned sharply to look at the attendants, arms folded behind her back as her eyes swept over Mui and the dozen or so members of General Borek’s staff. “Who is responsible for calling up the troops? I wish to begin our training as soon as possible.” Evie made a point of pausing, then added as an afterthought, “if the General agrees with it, of course.”

The attendants remained silent. Waiting for the General’s word.

For his part, this was apparently such a blatant effort at disrespect that General Borek couldn’t even bring himself to be offended. He rolled his eyes with a sigh, flicking his wrist.

“Yes, yes, go ahead and call up some of the garrisons. As Commander Evie says, it would be best to begin training on these weapons immediately.”

The General slipped away from Sara and Evie without a further word, having apparently had more than enough of their repeated disrespect. The two women took this without comment, beginning to walk out into the fields to be with their troops. Mui followed after the General, who soon turned around and crossed his arms, glaring at Mui.

“Cultural Exchange Officer Mui. I would like an explanation for the behavior of the Chosen and her wife.”

“I did warn you they were vulgar, sir,” Mui gently said.

“That was not vulgar. That was deliberately antagonistic. By your own accounts, the Chosen is more than capable of behaving as would be expected of her in any given situation. It is now time to earn your farcical title. Why did she choose to behave so?”

Mui swallowed, carefully considering his next words. He felt fairly certain he knew exactly why Sara had behaved as she did, but he was not sure if it was his place to offer mere conjecture, much less conjecture predicated upon knowledge provided to him by an entirely inappropriate relationship with the leader of a foreign nation. Sara may not wish for her ploys to be laid bare to the General, who himself would expect Mui’s unerring loyalty.

Ultimately, Mui decided that the most direct solution was best. He had no hope of picking apart the layers of Sara’s machinations, and whatever he ultimately chose, he felt certain she would have accurately predicted his decision. She also would not place much blame upon him for being pressured by a superior into telling the truth. It was therefore best to keep General Borek, who would most certainly take exception to any lie, as happy as could be.

“I believe she knows of your reputation as a particularly devout worshipper of the gods, sir,” Mui said, tilting his head demurely downward as he spoke. “If you will forgive me for offering what can only be my personal speculation, I believe she is doing her utmost to appear as directly opposite to your personal expectations of a Chosen. She despises worship of all kinds, and worship of her person most of all. Perhaps she hopes that by fulfilling every foul stereotype of a mercenary, you will think of her as an individual, rather than a Chosen. Truthfully, I do not think she even wishes to be seen as the leader of a foreign nation, nor even the commander of a mercenary company. Simply another woman among many.”

General Borek sniffed disdainfully. “False humility does not befit you, Officer Mui Thom. Your so-called speculation is anything but.” He shook his head, reaching up to twirl the graying fur over his cheeks. “What she wishes to be perceived as is irrelevant; the reality of her station still exists. If she did not wish for authority, she should not have sought it out.”

“I believe she felt compelled by necessity to ascend to her current position, sir. If she believed it possible to shirk her duties without consequence, she would.”

General Borek’s eyebrows rose. On a vanara’s usually less expressive face, it was a sign of considerable shock. “You not only speak to me without being asked a question, but do so in order to insult the Chosen to whom you are assigned as a liaison? I begin to wonder how you ever achieved the rank of Sergeant, Mui Thom.”

To say she seeks the life of a commoner is not in and of itself an insult, was Mui’s first thought, but this time he did not voice it. The General’s warning had been clear as crystal.

“Come now,” General Borek said, looking away from the fields of mercenaries in order to fix his attention more firmly on Mui. “You have already spoken out of turn once, Mui Thom. What else have you to say regarding the Chosen’s behavior? If you think yourself of the rank capable of discussing such matters as my equal, you must do so. Give me your ‘speculation’ without reservation.”

Mui sucked a breath through his teeth. General Borek’s attention was a withering thing. The old vanara’s eyes seemed to bore into him, calculating, evaluating.

“...I believe the Chosen’s enmity is easy to avoid,” Mui eventually said, drawing his words out to give himself time to think. “You must simply treat her as an equal, one whom you avoid ceremony and formality with at all costs. Her respect is easy to earn, once one understands what she seeks from others. You may worship her divinity in your own mind, but speak to her aloud as if you were both simple peasants. So long as you do this, as well as show care for the lives of your troops, I cannot see any reason why this unhappy set of circumstances must persist.”

General Borek took a long, deep breath, swelling his chest up for a time. Then he let it out in a sigh, blinking tiredly.

“You ask me to feign blasphemy, Mui Thom?”

A dangerous question if he had ever heard one. Mui paused once more, swallowing hard.

“No, sir. I only seek to offer advice on what the Chosen believes to be the proper form for her station to be honored.”

“By ignoring it?”

“By honoring the wishes of the Divine’s Chosen that stands before us here and now, rather than the dusty precedent of history.”

It was as close as Mui dared stray to outright saying that Sara’s desires should supersede that of the Empire’s religious traditions. If the General took his comment as an insult to the Emperor’s edicts, it would be within his rights to have Mui hanged for treason and heresy. It was unlikely for him to do so, considering the assuredly violent reaction from Sara, but even with that assurance, voicing such a thing had Mui’s heart thudding painfully in his chest.

“...I believe you are honest in your advice,” the General said, breaking eye contact with Mui, who sagged in relief. “I do not know if I can bring myself to disrespect her so, but I can see that your explanation for her behavior is soundly reasoned.” General Borek glanced back at his multitude of attendants, a crowd which had shrunk after runners had gone off to rouse the garrisons. “Those of military rank may stay with me. All others are dismissed to their regular duties.” The General once more pinched the tip of his furry beard, twisting it back and forth as a small smile grew on his face. “I wish our officers to attend this training as well. I imagine I am not alone in being rather intrigued by the idea of operating these weapons myself.”

Mui suppressed a sigh. It seemed he would not be getting any rest from this onerous duty yet.

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Three hours later, the fields of Battulen were hidden beneath a manmade fog. The targets of straw had long since been blown away by repeated impacts of lead, two thousand muskets cracking in the stuttering, awkward manner unique to wholly unprepared troops. The Powdered Lead Mercenaries had used short shovels they carried in their packs to dig up large lumps of dirt for targets, allowing the training to continue unabated. In order to ensure the soldiers could see their targets, General Borek had called out a number of novice mages from within Battulen, dozens of whom now labored under the command of the city’s Archmage to maintain a wind-summoning ritual. It helped disperse the smoke much quicker than would be otherwise possible, as the spellcrafted wind came from behind the line of training soldiers, sweeping upward shortly after, carrying the blackpowder fog into the sky and out of their line of sight.

To both Mui and General Borek’s surprise, Commander Evie had initially protested this measure. The ritual was too complex to be maintained in an actual battle, and she did not think the troops should grow accustomed to having such excellent visibility of their targets. General Borek had persisted, however, arguing that if musketry was anything like archery, it was not best practice to learn while under battlefield conditions. If an archer always loosed their shots amongst a volley, they would never learn how their arrow flew, nor how to adjust it.

While Evie had eventually accepted this logic, Mui suspected she did not truly agree. When he happened to stray near the groups of troops she was personally instructing, she seemed far more concerned with the ability of the garrison to load quickly, aim quickly, and loose their shots in one synchronized thunderclap. Accuracy was a secondary concern to her, as she anticipated the troops to be firing not at single targets, but mass blocks of enemy troops.

Whatever the proper approach was for training the garrison troops, Evie and Sara both agreed that it was appropriate for the Imperial Warriors to receive much more dedicated instruction in marksmanship. General Borek and those he had brought with him were being treated to a personal lesson from one of the Powdered Lead’s ‘sharpshooters,’ a half-orc woman who was dressed in the thick leathers of a jungle huntress. Her name was Nente, and from what little Mui had gathered, she had lived an interesting life. Raised by her parents to provide wild game for her village, her skill with a longbow had earned her a place among the specially-recruited Marines of the Tulian Navy, where her particular Class had allowed her to easily adopt muskets. After becoming enamored with all the comforts such high pay could afford her, she had leapt at the opportunity to become a mercenary, despite her lingering distaste for living amongst the hustle and bustle of wider society.

“You flinch again, General,” the woman said, her broken command of Kemari garbled further by her thick accent. “Be surprised by the shot, not ready.”

“If I do not brace myself for the recoil, how am I supposed to aim properly?” General Borek demanded testily. Having a peasant speak to him in such an authoritative tone was grating on him. Nente’s poor grasp of the language afforded her enough leeway to get away with it, however. It was easy enough to pretend she would be showing proper respect to the General if only she had the words for it.

“By the time you is struck, the shot is done,” Nente said, thumping the meat of her shoulder where a rifle would rest. “When you brace, you aim bad. The gun bounces, your shot flies wild. Pull trigger slowly and you will hit better.”

General Borek grumbled something under his breath, but did not argue. Though a deeply proper man, he had been born a member of a fairly humble noble family. This meant he had spent his early years being trained by Warriors who outranked him in experience and status both, and so he was not wholly unaccustomed to receiving such straightforward instruction. A more highborn General would have reacted far worse to Nente’s blunt criticisms.

Mui listened to the General receive his lessons from several paces away, holding his own musket. Unlike almost every other firearm provided to the Empire, his had been rifled, and more than that, it was a true ‘Hot Rifle.’ While General Borek had also received a rifled musket, he had not received one of the precious few produced by Hurlish of Tulian’s own hand. It bore the HOT insignia on its barrel, but had actually been smithed by one of Hurlish’s apprentices. While still an exemplary weapon, the distinction between Hurlish and her apprentices was an important one.

This was a fact that Sara had told Mui in no uncertain terms to keep secret, of course. The Hot Rifles had no way to distinguish between those made by Hurlish or her apprentices, their markings being identical. Mui only knew because the Chosen had told him such, handing him the weapon with a beaming smile.

Lowering the weapon after his most recent shot, one which had thumped into the dirt a dozen feet before the two-hundred-yard target, he almost wished she hadn’t told him of the superiority of his rifle. It made every missed shot just that much more frustrating, even if he was the only one who knew just how few excuses he had for his mistakes.

Just when he began to load another round, his wax-stuffed ears noticed an abrupt tapering-off of the gunfire from the left side of the training line. Mui set his rifle down, pocketing the blackpowder charge as he stepped aside, looking curiously down the way.

Emerging from the same trail that the first group of mercenaries had arrived from was the first in a long line of brilliant, gleaming bronze weapons.

Mui slung his rifle over his shoulder, adjusting its leather strap to fit better against his fur. All around him, the gunfire was petering out as more and more of the garrison realized exactly what was emerging from the forest. For the last three hours, even as they’d cooed over the power of their new muskets, their trainers had told them that they were nothing next to the artillery. Now the fabled beasts were stalking out into the light, their prestige only grown by the way that the carriages were hitched not to animals, but men and women. So valuable were the cannons, Mui knew the garrison was thinking, that the Powdered Lead Mercenaries had willingly turned themselves into beasts of burden.

Mui had already seen the cannons. They did not make the same impression on him as they did the others. It was an impressive array, yes, what with the troops marching out in lockstep, their heads held high, every inch of glittering bronze freshly polished, but that was no different to how they had looked in Tulian proper.

No, what caught Mui’s attention was the orcish woman at the head of the line.

He tightened the strap of his rifle further as his walk turned into an urgent jog, his eyes squinting in disbelief. Surely he was mistaken. The mercenaries were distant, and orcs were almost always within an inch or two of the same height.

It has to be a coincidence, he insisted to himself. She would never allow it.

Out ahead of him, Mui saw Sara and Evie begin sprinting across the field to meet the cannons in the same moment he recognized the orcish woman’s brown strap for what it was: a swaddled babe held firmly to her chest.

Hurlish swept Evie and Sara up into a tight hug as they leapt upon her, catching each woman in either arm and swinging them merrily around. She pressed a kiss to each of their foreheads, then dropped them, returning a comforting palm to the baby on her chest. Powdered Lead mercenaries across the fields let out wolf whistles and taunting jeers amidst a smattering of amused laughter.

The urgency in Mui’s jog began to fade as Sara, Evie, and Hurlish began walking back towards them, splitting off from the rest of the artillery convoy.

“Is something the matter, Officer Mui?” General Borek asked.

Mui didn’t even have it in him to startle at the man’s unexpected voice. He held up a hand limply, searching for words, then dropped it.

“I… There is no way Evie would allow…”

“Were you not made aware?” The General asked, faintly amused. “I was. Who else would be developing our industries to be capable of producing this foreign weaponry, if not the woman who built the world’s first examples? I feel certain Hurlish of Tulian will be welcomed with open arms by the city’s smiths.”

Mui did not offer further comment. He watched as the women were joined by four figures in thick, dark green cloaks, who positioned themselves in a square around their charges. Guards, he could only assume.

As they reached one another, Mui did not pay much mind to Sara, who immediately began speaking with General Borek alongside Hurlish. Instead he stepped up to Evie, leaning his head down to quietly whisper to her.

“What is she doing here?” He asked.

“Hm?” Evie hummed innocently, blinking up at him. “Whatever do you mean, Mui? If I have brought one wife on the campaign, why not the other?”

“You are not like this.” Mui glanced at green-cloaked figures, who were remaining close to Hurlish. “Did she force you to allow her presence?”

“Of course not,” Evie whispered back, a taunting smile flickering at the corners of her lips. “I almost feel offended that you think our relationship is so poor we could not come to a compromise.”

“Is she an imposter?” Mui asked. “I know Sara is capable of producing illusions. Is this your attempt at drawing out would-be assassins?”

“I assure you, Hurlish is entirely present at the moment.”

He looked at the woman, who was towering over Sara as she spoke to the General. Hurlish reached out a hand for General Borek to shake, shifting which hand supported her child. The General shook it, his diminutive vanara fingers absorbed into Hurlish’s calloused palm. The two exchanged brief pleasantries.

“This is impossible,” Mui said. “You did not allow Sara, a Chosen of the Gods, to be alone for longer than five minutes on the streets of a friendly Imperial city. Yet you have brought your wife and infant child to the front lines of a war?”

“Unlike with Sara, I have been allowed to take certain precautions regarding Hurlish and Tahn’s safety.”

His eyes narrowed. “What does that mean? You would not accept the work of the Adjutant’s own Imperial Guard as adequate.”

“True. I am a cautious woman.”

“Then how is she here? How is your child here?”

Evie’s eyes flicked to the robed guards.

“Mui,” Evie said in a whisper that was beginning to grow testy, “I am not concerned for Hurlish’s safety.”

“You? You are not concerned?” He could not believe what he was hearing. “What have you done? Who are these guards? What bargain have you struck? What have you sold of yourself?”

“I have done no such thing, Mui Thom,” Evie hissed. “But know this: I am no fool. There is not an assassin in your Empire capable of harming my wife or our child.”

And with that, Evie abandoned him, leaving his muzzle hanging agape.

He turned to look at the guards, a chill sending his fur standing on end. They did not look particularly remarkable. Their robes were of plain cloth, if skilfully dyed, and they did not wear helmets. Despite the heat, they hadn’t parted the thick cloth the slightest inch. The cloaks began an inch beneath their chin and stopped just before brushing the ground, the edges tinged with the mud of travel. They were each expressionless, utterly focused, their eyes darting from person to person as the group around Sara grew. Two men, two women. He did not recognize them from his time in Tulian.

What are they?

Hurlish and Sara had finished speaking to the General, whatever obligatory introductions they’d been undergoing having been completed without issue. Now Hurlish was walking back over to the train of artillery guns that were emerging from the jungle, Sara at her side, Evie hurrying to join them. It seemed one of the guns had gotten a wheel stuck in the mud, requiring their attention. The four guards left with them, emotionless as always.

“General,” Mui whispered. “Those guards. You saw them, yes?”

“Of course,” the General replied, giving Mui a curious look.

“Do you think you could challenge them? If it were necessary, do you think you could fight them?”

General Borek snorted derisively. “What kind of question is that, Officer Mui Thom?”

“I have heard that Warriors such as yourself are capable of knowing more about their opponent than most. If you drew your sword now, against those four people, could you kill them?”

“Of course I-” he began to say, flicking his attention up to the backs of the robed figures.

One of their heads slowly creaked around, its empty expression landing upon Mui and the General.

It stared at them across the field. Unflinching. Its cloak shifted with every step, shapes bulging and fading beneath the cloth as it moved.

“I… That is… That is strange.” The General focused harder on the figure, squinting. “No,” he eventually murmured, speaking well under his breath. “No, somehow. I don’t believe I could.”

The green-cloaked figure silently returned their expression forward, freeing them from its stare.

“Could you defeat Commander Evie? Or the Chosen?”

“Yes,” General Borek said immediately, “and with ease. The Chosen’s talents are not purely martial, and while Commander Evie will likely someday eclipse me, she has not done so yet. Separately or together, they do not pose the slightest threat.”

“But those guards?”

“Are more than my match.” The General’s expression soured, as if the words coming to him were terribly bitter. “I could not defeat a single one.” He turned to Mui. “You have spoken out of turn once more, Officer Mui Thom.”

“I apologize, sir,” Mui said, though he truly didn’t mean it. “I thought it was something necessary to bring your attention to.”

“That is…” General Borek inhaled deeply, blowing the breath out through his nose. “Yes. It was. You are dismissed from my retinue for the time being, Officer. Rejoin your charges. They are-”

Hurlish had reached the cannon which had become mired in the mud. With one hand still supporting her child, she reached down and grabbed it by the muzzle, lifting the entire thing up as if it were a piece of dry tinder. She walked a few paces forward, tapping a foot out on the ground ahead of her to find a drier patch, then set it back down. She had not stopped her conversation with her wives as she did so.

The General clicked his tongue. “Were you told how much those cannons weighed, by any chance?”

“Some thirteen hundred pounds, I believe. For the bronze alone, not including the weight of the carriage.”

“Yes. Well. As I was saying, then. They are individuals worth watching, Officer Mui.”

You have no idea.

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