A Perverted Path to Victory

Evie Brown

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The morning rains pitter-pattered against the canvas walls of her family’s home away from home. The sun had barely broken the horizon line, leaving the exterior as dark and chill as the humid jungle could be, though the poor air did not breach the tent’s familiar mustiness. Despite the ongoing preparations for the day’s march occurring just outside, Evie kept one ear turned toward the creaking rocking chair. She could hear Tahn hungrily nursing from Sara, who seemed near to drifting back to sleep. Despite her half-lidded eyes and drooping head, she kept a firm grip on their son, keeping him pressed to her breast. Evie felt certain that even a magically induced coma could not cause Sara to drop Tahn. Hurlish had left the tent before sunrise, taking two of the guards as she went to finish up some projects before packing up her mobile forge. The tent felt awfully empty without her gregarious presence.

Evie was sitting at their single, simple desk, a communication crystal helping light her journal. Her fountain pen scratched and scribbled softly as she worked, hurrying to copy what she could of the ongoing combat report. There had been a great deal which occurred in and over Port Agrith the previous day, and it had taken this long for the involved parties to prepare their statements. She couldn’t write fast enough to fully record the report, but that was of little concern. She would simply consult Sara’s Blessings to correct what she had missed later on.

“...after repairs are completed, Admiral B’Leary requests permission to resume campaign with minor alterations that are to be soon finalized. Report concluded.”

Evie nodded to herself, satisfied. Setting her pen down, she stretched her hand while she composed her thoughts. After working the cramps from her muscles, she put a finger on her notes and began working her way down the topics to be addressed.

“Regarding two incidents of shipborne artillery striking a griffon in mid-flight: disregard and forget. These are aberrations which will not be reproducible and should not be counted on occurring in the future. The ship responsible for striking both griffons should be thoroughly searched for Artillery Lieutenant Shale, whose disallowed presence is almost certainly responsible for the weapon’s improbable accuracy.”

Evie had already spoken to several members of the Tulian military in respect to that incident. A 24-pounder smoothbore cannon simply could not directly strike a bobbing, weaving griffon. Even a single shot was lucky enough as to be impossible. Twice was unthinkable, and that aroused her suspicion. After a quick query, Evie confirmed that the North Star Fort had recorded Lieutenant Shale beginning a week of leave the day before the fleet’s departure. As the only citizen of the Tulian Republic confirmed to have an artillery-based Class, there could be no one else responsible for such impossible accuracy. In light of her importance to the Tulian Army, Shale’s punishment for dereliction of duty would have to be carefully considered, neither too harsh nor too lenient. The precedent it established would be paramount. As more and more individuals gained powerful Classes across Tulian, finding a way for a democratic republic to effectively control Irregulars would be critical. That Shale’s disregard for military protocol had resulted in obvious material benefits to the Tulian war effort complicated matters even further. Evie would render no judgement without first discussing the matter with Sara. She moved her finger down the list to the next item.

“However, the griffon shot down by a breech-loading cannon’s proximity-fused shells is now the second of the creatures to be struck by such a weapon. In light of this, the Artificer Union is to immediately begin preparing a report on the prospective rate of producing similarly enchanted shells, collaborating with the Smith’s Union to determine what sacrifices must be made to meet the necessary quantity of these small-caliber cannons and their ammunition.”

In truth, the weapon that had shot down the first griffon during the aerial raid of Tulian had been an expensive prototype of much more modern weapon, but that was not public knowledge. Regardless, Evie felt confident in ordering the development of the semi-experimental device. Having been inspired by Professor Brown’s tales of World War cannons capable of engaging both aircraft and armored vehicles, it was their first artillery piece to use all-steel construction, rendering it lightweight and highly mobile. At a mere two hundred pounds, it could be mounted on ship gunwales as easily as it could be left lurking in a civilian home’s window for an ambush. So long as they still lacked armor-piercing ammunition, the sheer mass of its multi-pound bullet would be an acceptable substitute for demolishing enchanted armor.

“As for the status of Commanders Chona and Tinvel, their request for recovery leave is approved only conditionally. Though they will not be deployed on combat missions, their role in pilot training is to continue as scheduled, and the time spent in Tulian proper is expected to be used productively. One week will be adequate for mental and physical recovery—”

“Two weeks,” Sara quietly murmured.

“—correction, two weeks, repeat two weeks, will be adequate,” Evie adeptly pivoted. Sara did not explain the correction, and Evie did not ask. “During this period the first priority of the Air Force command staff will be to develop a robust system capable of providing advanced warning of incoming aerial raids.”

The Tulian Air Force had made an admirable showing during the unexpected skirmish over Port Agrith. Marine inspection of the fortifications determined that the airborne rocket attacks had produced gratifying results, though they’d been deployed in numbers too few to make a decisive contribution to the battle. While Tinvel and Affe had dueled the wyvern Taotri, one rookie aircraft had successfully downed an enemy griffon, though this was only achieved as the creature was in the process of downing said aircraft’s wingmate, having already downed another plane. To everyone’s pleasant surprise, three of the four downed aircrew had been treaded water for long enough that a rowboat was sent to retrieve them. The single death was a backseat mage who had also survived the crash, but was too injured to swim. With Tulian’s entire national cadre of mages numbering just above a hundred (disregarding the untrusted Carrion immigrants, as Evie always did in military matters), that was a frustrating loss, but not catastrophic. A good showing overall, and a promising sign of the ongoing combat training efforts.

“In addition,” she added after a moment of thought, “Air General Voth is to discuss with Minister Vesta about outsourcing parachute production to Carrion interests. If secrecy can be assured, these and other pilot-saving devices should be pursued vigorously.”

Glancing down, Evie felt herself frustrated with the long list of matters to still be addressed. She wanted more detailed accounts of how well the Port Agrith castle had withstood artillery bombardment, having learned only that Admiral B’Leary ordered the ships to attack it with broadsides from as close a range as was possible. Either B’Leary was an impatient commander or the castle’s enchantments had proved more formidable than anticipated. Alongside this, a full tally of looted equipment would also need to be assembled, with enchanted artifacts redistributed to those in the military they best suited, and ammunition expenditure carefully tallied in order to determine what production rates should be strived for in the future. With the powder mill destroyed, this raid had been conducted on the back of an ever-reducing stockpile of blackpowder, and she suspected the emcotton manufactory could not yet meet wartime replacement rate. Even that was assuming all weapons could actually be modified to use the more volatile propulsive agent. Further, she recalled, several recent and nearly catastrophic incidents at the emcotton plant meant that manufacturing safety standards would need to be reviewed, which was a matter she’d had tabled as a not-quite-highest priority for nearly a week now.

If only we had enough aeroplanes to ferry Sara and I back and forth from the city, Evie lamented. Even with this unprecedented ability to communicate, ruling a people from afar is nearly impossible.

Loathe as she was to admit it, this type of administrative work was exactly what her mother’s education had prepared Evie for, and those brutally abusive years of training were proving invaluable. Though her passion remained with family and blade, it would be a lie to claim that she was incompetent in this task. And, glancing at her contentedly dozing wife and child, Evie found herself feeling a peculiar pride in the soul-sucking drudgery. Irritating though she might find the work, it would have been maddening for Sara or Hurlish. After all they did for her, she was glad she could take up some of their burden.

The rest of the administrative duties were fairly routine. Evie weighed in on a few more issues of greater importance, but eventually decided to begin delegating, forgoing personal orders in lieu of telling Vesta or other ministers to deal with whatever question was yet unanswered. It was then, as she was crossing off the last items on her list, that she noticed Sara’s eyes flicker open, head cocking in interest.

“Looks like something’s up in the officer’s part of the camp,” she said. Standing carefully, she moved to place Tahn in his sound-proofed crib. “Lotta people talking about a wyvern all of the sudden.”

“Oh?” Evie put her pen down. “Is there an incoming attack?”

“Don’t think so. People know this one’s name. Fanlah, apparently.” Sara listened to her Blessings for a moment longer. “She’s a… messenger wyvern, people are saying.”

Evie stood, stretching. “Curious. Considering their worshipful attitude toward wyverns, I would not have expected the Imperials to assign a wyvern to mere courier duty.”

“Yeah, kinda weird. But the way people are talking, this wyvern’s still a pretty big deal. She hasn’t landed yet, but people are already guessing that she’s bringing something important with her. Some runners have already been sent to grab General Borek.”

“That important, hm? I suppose we must make an appearance.”

Gently rocking the crib that Tahn now slept in, Sara gave Evie an awkward glance. “Uh. I guess so. But Hurlish isn’t back yet, and it’s still my turn with Tahn…”

Evie snorted and rolled her eyes. “Of course. I expect I’ll be able to deal with whatever drama might arrive well enough. And your Blessings will likely hear anything of relevance from here regardless.”

Sara smiled apologetically. “Sorry. If Hurlish gets back early, I’ll hurry right over.”

“Only if you feel it necessary, dear. It’s unlikely to be a pressing matter.”

“Thanks. Love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Slipping her pistol belt on, followed by her chestplate and its holster for her Walker revolver, Evie spent a few minutes glancing in a piece of polished bronze to correct her appearance. If her wives did not so love her long hair and the fanciful braids she wove it into, she long since would have trimmed it shorter. The jungle environment left her long blonde locks terribly unruly, always requiring longer than it should to comb back into place. Once she was presentable, Evie stepped from the tent and nodded to the guards, murmuring a brief explanation of where she was going, then departed.

The officer’s portion of the camp was, as always, quite a ways from where the Powdered Lead spent each night. Though their unique status could have afforded them a far better place within the column, Sara had categorically refused to be treated as anything other than standard mercenaries. In the ten or so minutes it took for Evie to weave her way through the tent city, rain cloak raised over her head, she was given plenty of time to study the approaching wyvern.

It was smaller than she’d expected. Though the mighty Imperequs remained the only wyvern she’d seen in person, she’d read plenty of accounts of others, particularly the infamous menace that had been assaulting Tulian and its forces. Compared to those titans, this wyvern was diminutive. Larger than the griffons that rose to greet it, true, but only in wingspan, and not by much. The four-legged griffons sported broad, heaving shoulders, their bulky, leonine frames similar in dimension to an elephant’s, in stark contrast to this wyvern’s uniquely serpentine body. A slender neck swept gracefully into trim shoulders and thin, lightly scaled wings, the breadth of which mostly forwent scales in favor of a reddish, translucent membrane that stretched between long, spindly bones. As the wyvern banked for a turn, Evie saw that a mere four riders sat upon its back, and it seemed unlikely there was room for many more, though she knew the creature was strong enough to carry the weight.

The wyvern, as Sara had predicted, came to a soft and graceful landing amidst the officer’s camp. While a creature like Imperequs would have cast a shadow long enough to cover Evie even from that distance, she could no longer see this wyvern, its head easily obscured by the rows of tents and flagpoles sporting colorful family heraldry.

As she continued to approach, Evie found herself unable to tear her thoughts away from the issues she’d grappled with over the communication crystal. The more she mulled it over, the more certain she felt that the ensuing punishment of Lieutenant Shale would be one of the most important political decisions of the coming months, perhaps even the coming years. It was a crisis in disguise. In all the lands Evie had ever known, the dereliction of duty from someone as prominent as Shale would have resulted in a slap on the wrist, perhaps some minor fine or, at worst, a public denouncement of her actions from the ruling monarch. Yet, despite the success she had achieved in shooting down griffons which assaulted the fleet, the fact remained that she had disobeyed orders. Abandoned her post under false pretenses, faked an identity to be allowed aboard the vessel, and then, unless the captain of the vessel was in on the ruse, she had presumably forcibly commandeered a cannon from its rightful operators in the midst of battle. In Sporatos, a peasant guilty of such crimes would have been publicly hanged in the middle of their hometown, their family and all who had known them forced to attend under threat of similar execution. Even in manpower-starved Tulian, a similarly guilty common soldier would have been tossed from the military in disgrace, perhaps imprisoned for the duration of the war to prevent similar acts.

Yet Shale was too important. Her impossible accuracy and her unrivaled artillery expertise, formed by experience she had begun garnering before all but a dozen individuals even knew of blackpowder’s existence, were irreplaceable. She had quite literally built the artillery brigade that won the first war, and was in the public consciousness third after Sara and Hurlish in responsibility for the nation’s victory. Yet every prospective draft of the Tulian constitution began and ended with a doctrine of utter, absolute, uncompromising equality. There was not, and never would be, a legal precedent for exceptionalism. To allow Shale to maintain her authority was as good as declaring that high-Leveled individuals, particularly combat Irregulars, were exempt from the laws that bound others. And that exemption was the core basis of what Professor Brown’s lectures had begun to term “Leveled Feudalism.” Perhaps they could toss this singular event under the rug and away from the eyes of historians and legal scholars, but Evie doubted it. Shale was too notable a figure to be missed.

Perhaps we could develop a penal battalion system, she contemplated. Force guilty Irregulars of particular importance to continue fighting under reduced pay and be quartered in ignoble, unenviable circumstances. Or we could place her under guard, soldiers with pistols following her about with orders to shoot her dead should she try to break rank again, and allow that walking prison sentence to make a prominent example of her.

She scowled. But neither of those would solve the problem of how to punish a politically popular Irregular, much less how to contain a disobedient individual who is physically beyond the capacity of common soldiers to defeat or restrain. Shale is beloved by the troops of her command, and they will celebrate her even more after word of such a roguish adventure is spread, no matter how obvious the punishment. Is imprisonment really the only solution? Surely not.

The concern gnawed at her, and this was one of the rare issues where she could not simply set it aside with the assurance that Sara and her Blessings would deal with it later. As was befitting her Champion wife, Sara was more fanatically egalitarian than anyone else; her emphasis on ideological purity meant she would order nearly anyone imprisoned without a second thought. Only Evie and Hurlish were immune, and even then, Sara’s blasé admission that she could not bring herself to punish her wives was foremost amongst her public arguments against those who opposed democracy in favor of naming her Tulian’s dictator for life. Evie could not allow Sara’s bullheaded stubbornness to see Shale clapped in irons. The Tulian Army needed people like Artillery Lieutenant Shale, and of nearly equal importance to that, they needed a legal framework for dealing with their disobedience.

The matter would have to be considered later, however, because she had arrived at the perimeter of the officer’s camp. Briefly lowering her raincloak’s hood to allow a walking patrol of soldiers to recognize her, Evie simply needed to follow the buzz of a crowd to locate the wyvern.

And quite the crowd it was. It seemed like any and every member of the army that sported the flower petals of Imperial authority was abusing their status to crowd as close to this ‘Fanlah’ as was possible. General Borek himself was at the center of the congregation, surrounded by almost every officer that Evie recognized from her time in his conferences. The General was speaking to the wyvern in what looked like, at least from a distance, a formal, respectful manner.

The wyvern seemed unbothered by the audience her arrival had ushered into existence. Evie had never imagined a wyvern sitting primly, yet it seemed exactly what this purple creature was doing. With hind legs folded beneath themselves like a cat, their wings were pressed neatly against their sides, positioned somewhat forward to better support their weight. The base of their neck was at eye level for most of the humans, allowing them to comfortably snake the sinuous limb to face whichever speaker currently held their attention. Where Imperequs had invariably towered like the titanous creature he was, Fanlah seemed like an elegant noble holding court.

One member of that court was a terribly unwelcome sight. Shimmering brilliantly across from General Borek were the robes of an Honored Elven Mage. With her black hair pulled back to put on display her long, pointed ears, Mayaran was listening to the ongoing conversation with a polite, genial smile, though she was scanning the crowd carefully.

Evie waited in place until, across the distance, Mayaran’s gaze fell on her. A flicker of recognition went across the woman’s face as their eyes met. Evie forced the corners of her lips to raise. Mayaran’s smile, meanwhile, widened with clear satisfaction.

Stepping into the crowd, Evie easily disappeared within the mob. Though they were trying to stay silent enough General Borek wouldn’t order the crowd dispersed, so many fervent whispers couldn’t help but become loud in aggregate. As a result, the startled exclamations of the few that glanced beneath Evie’s hood were lost in the tumult, allowing her to slip and weave through the press largely unnoticed.

She stopped to consider before taking the last step into the open ring that remained clear around the proceedings. Rather than the urgent military report she had expected, this was clearly a political arena. Her raincloak was dotted with mud from head to toe, increasingly messy as attention lowered to the fringes, which were streaked heavily with the putrid waste left by a marching army. The garment effectively covered her breastplate which was, while practical, far from impressive, much like the simple leather breeches she’d worn for pants.

She decided to change nothing. She was a mercenary commander, and she had seen Master Graf wear formal clothing on two occasions only: an event commemorating the twentieth anniversary of the former Queen’s death, and when Evie had specifically requested his dressing up to stand guard for her debutante ball. If armor and traveling clothes were good enough for him, she could think of no better example to follow. Sara, at least, would doubtlessly approve. Allowing the filth and detritus of military action to follow into public affairs was as blunt a metaphor as they came.

She slipped into the proverbial limelight easily, her hood still raised, her boots thick with clods of mud. Her breaking of the informal perimeter caused several of General Borek’s advisors to put a hand to their swords, but she cowed them with a flick of her eyes, sending them flinching away.

Mayaran, predictably, was the first to take notice of Evie’s arrival. She turned and spread her arms like a gracious host, bowing her head as she raised her voice to speak.

“Ah, Lady Brown arrives.” Her eyes flicked to Evie’s raincoat. “And in all her usual splendor. I am glad to see you, Commander.”

A snipe at my clothing already? Terribly impatient of you, Mayaran.

“And I you, Mage Mayaran,” Evie greeted in turn. She paused to pick at her shoulder, pinching the soaked garment up off herself and folding it over an arm. “I’m surprised an Honored Elven regards this dull garb as splendorous, however. Considering the incredible commotion, I’d arrived prepared for battle, but instead found only old friends and,” Evie took a moment to bow to Fanlah, “esteemed and most welcome guests. It is an unexpected but joyous pleasure to find myself in the presence of a Noble Wyvern.” She stayed bent in a bow as she introduced herself. “I am Commander Evie Brown of the Tulian Republic, presently in administrative command of the Powdered Lead Mercenaries, attached by honor and contract to the First Imperial Blackpowder Army.” She lifted herself and smiled at the wyvern. “I know not your name or purpose, yet find your majesty eclipses even the most fanciful tales my people told of your kind’s magnificence.”

The wyvern laughed, a surprisingly light, rumbling sort of chuckle.

“Yet it must have not been too long since your people knew mine, for you know well our penchant for flattery. I am Fanlah, hatched of Matriarch Bessilin and the White Line’s finest joining, Sixth Cousin to Noble Imperequs himself, and his mighty self’s chosen messenger.” As she spoke, Evie found herself surprised by the sonorous, feminine hum that the wyvern’s voice possessed, soft enough that it hardly seemed possible it could come from such a large creature. Once the echoes of her many titles were drunk up by the light rain, the wyvern chuckled again. “But you may call me Fanlah, for short.”

Polite laughter went around the listening men and women. Meanwhile, gears spun within Evie’s mind. She’d made some small efforts to determine the place of wyverns within Imperial Society ever since her encounter with Imperequs. It had proved a difficult question to answer. The ageless beings were akin in social rank to the Honored Elven, with the least of them seen as far above the highest of ‘mere mortals,’ yet almost no one had spoken of them with the religious reverence they did Honored Elven. It seemed wyverns were respected by simple virtue of the incredible power they possessed. The internal pecking order of Imperial wyverns was even more opaque, hinted at most prominently in the way both Fanlah and Taotri had respectively introduced themselves as being sixth and fourth cousins to Imperequs, the Emperor’s personal steed. That Fanlah had just ended her titles with her being Imperequs’s personal messenger, therefore declaring it more important than being his sixth cousin, suggested bloodlines were of less significance than possessing the great wyvern’s personal favor. In effect, Evie’s diplomatic training translated, she was speaking to a Duchess that had a close grip on the King’s ear.

And as Sara always reminds me, she thought, those who disrespect the secretary rarely find themselves speaking to the boss.

She bowed once more. “It is my singular pleasure to make your acquaintance, Fanlah. I apologize that I could not prepare for such an auspicious meeting more appropriately.”

“Think nothing of it,” Fanlah said, using a ripple of her wing’s membranes to wave away Evie’s apology. “That would have required you to know of my arrival ahead of time, and that would require there to exist a swifter set of wings than my own.”

Evie joined in on a second round of laughter, though this set came only from Borek and the officers surrounding him, the ones best informed of high-level Imperial politicking. Even as she laughed, Evie analyzed their reactions, trying to determine their honesty. It was an important matter: it would tell her whether Fanlah was an unabashed braggart with such a sensitive ego she required sycophants to laugh at every paltry joke, or if the mere idea of her being outpaced was so ludicrously absurd as to be genuinely humorous. Though Evie didn’t have Sara’s unerring perfection at sniffing out lies, she was leaning towards the latter. More than one advisor said something aside to another while still laughing, the mention of which caused their laughter to redouble. Their reactions reminded Evie of the Sporaton Knights who constantly obsessed over the results of jousting matches. Perhaps messenger wyverns raced for sport, and Fanlah was making reference to some recent humiliation of an opponent?

As the laughter petered out, Mage Mayaran looked toward Evie, still maintaining that cool, polite smile.

“Will your wife be joining us, by any chance? I have matters of relevance to the investigation of the terrible murder within my personal camp.”

Evie’s grin was equally polite, if perhaps a touch more brittle.

“Which wife?”

Once upon a time, that would have caused something of a rustle from the Imperials, prickly as they were about physical and romantic intimacy. They’d long since gotten used to Sara, Evie, and Hurlish’s supposed depravity, however, and instead were more surprised to see Evie flinging the same question that Sara usually did. Sara hated hearing Evie or Hurlish be reduced to simply ‘her wife,’ and had often been a stickler for making others refer to them by name. Evie, in contrast, had accepted that context was all she required to make the distinction. In this instance, however, she found herself revelling in the pettiness of making Mage Mayaran repeat herself unnecessarily.

“The one in charge of the investigation, of course,” the mage said drolly, all but rolling her eyes. “I have conferred with a number of preeminent Elven mages in the capital regarding a piece of key evidence, and believe I have discovered something of significance.”

The photo, of course, was the piece of evidence Mayaran was referring to. The mage had not made its existence public, as doing so would have required her to admit her tent had been breached by the murderer. Evie had no idea what the elven mages could have possibly discovered from a completely inert slab of metal and chemicals, but spellcraft was called magic for a reason. It could have been anything.

“Excellent news,” Evie replied gamely, stepping up to close the distance between herself and the mage. “However, my wife is currently caring for our son in the absence of Hurlish and myself, and so will not be able to come forth. I will be going to visit her shortly, however, and could relay a message, if you’d like?”

Mayaran frowned, glancing about at the milling crowd. “It is not a matter for public knowledge, I am afraid.”

An opening.

Evie took several more quick steps forward, speaking as she went. “Of course. Simply relay it to me in privacy and I will be on my way.”

Before Mayaran could retort, Evie was already standing before her, head tilted to allow the taller woman to speak into her patiently waiting ears. Scowling, but recognizing that anything less than telling Evie then and there could be willfully misconstrued as lack of faith in her supposed evidence, Mayaran’s teeth ground together as she hissed down at Evie.

“If you think I ever thought the killer was anything other than you and your agents, you’re a fool.”

Evie tilted her own head back up, schooling her face into impassivity even as she hissed at Mayaran in turn. Many others watched on curiously, ignorant of the undertone of hostility.

“If you wish to begin a trial in the court of public opinion against Emotion’s Chosen, please, feel free. This army knows that the bitch who died deserved worse. My wife could admit her guilt in the center of camp in a speech that ends with every soul present applauding. In the interim, don’t waste our time with your idiocy.”

They parted, both wearing masterful masks of calm respect that were sure to fool most everyone watching. It was only due to her closeness that Evie could see the glittering hostility in her opposite’s eye. She suspected there was something similar tainting her own expression.

“General Borek, I will appraise you of this evidence’s significance as soon as I confer with my wife,” Evie announced, tilting her head respectfully to the general. “In fact, I believe it best if I do so immediately, if I may take your leave.”

“Yes, you may go,” the General responded, barely hiding his weariness for the politicking. Evie suspected he knew as well as anyone who, exactly, had terrorized Mayaran on that night. The machinations of Honored Elven and Divine Chosen were something he had very little interest in involving himself with, so long as they weren’t physically at one another’s throats.

Evie nodded her thanks and turned to leave, lifting her raincloak to place it on her shoulders once more. Before she had traveled more than a few steps, however, she was brought to a halt. It was Fanlah, of all people, who called out for her to wait.

“A moment, Lady Brown.”

She obediently stopped, turning toward the voice. The wyvern’s long neck snuck its way toward Evie like a great python, the head it sprouted larger than her torso. In the wyvern’s jaws, to her surprise, was a wooden cylinder, perhaps a foot long and three inches in diameter. Fanlah opened her mouth as she came within arm’s length of Evie, using her wrist-thick tongue to push it forward.

Evie accepted it reflexively, before it fell. At first terribly confused, she spun the cylinder about until she found the sender’s seal: a lidded eye. The symbol of the Night’s Eye.

“Through Imperequs, the Scalebreaker bid me deliver his protege this message.” Fanlah bowed as only a wyvern could, her body stationary, her neck curving until her jaw tapped the ground. “To carry script penned by his hand has been the greatest privilege of my long life. I thank you for this opportunity, and humbly ask that you relay to his person the gratitude I feel for being entrusted with such an important task.”

In that moment, it became terribly clear how poor of an influence Sara had been on Evie, because she had to forcibly prevent herself from telling Fanlah that Graf regularly used peasant message-runners as young as ten or eleven years old. Delivering his orders was hardly an honor to be proud of. Instead of sharing that idiotically self-destructive truth, she nodded solemnly.

“I will, of course, noble Fanlah.”

“Thank you.” Her head rose. “And, though I know you stated she is caring for your child, I find myself wanting to ask after the possibility of greeting— ah. Of course. I will wait.”

Whatever the wyvern had just said was lost on Evie, who was already unscrewing the fanciful message tube and dumping out its contents. She knew at a glance that the message was legitimate: despite the long container it was stored in, the message was written on the bottom portion of a sheet of paper torn in half. Evie smiled fondly, recalling the many times Graf had complained about the cost of paper when he reviewed the Night’s Eye’s expense reports.

Evie,

Your latest combat ended in victory because you fought well and won the day, congratulations.

That tedium done with, onto the matter of correcting your errors.

You still focus too heavily on guarding and attacking high. The near-miss blow to your stomach that forced you to draw your pistol would have been avoided if you were less obsessive about striking the enemy’s face. When I drilled you to develop the accuracy necessary to pierce the eye through an armor’s vision slits, it was not with the intention of you ignoring other weaknesses. As your immature temper tantrum demonstrated, your opponent’s armor had vulnerabilities below the neck as well.

I will also not have you viewing the utilization of your pistol to win a battle as a failure worthy of that foolish outburst. While the stated goal of allowing your wife to gain combat experience justified her attempt at single combat with the enemy, your predilection for dueling MUST be abandoned the moment you enter a true battlefield. Dueling is a showman’s talent, not a soldier’s, and I do not train showmen. You should have shot that woman the moment your wife was defeated. Unless you have some means of ensuring your defeat will not lead to death, such as someone preparing to intervene similarly to how you did on your wife’s behalf, I will consider it a severe failure if you do not immediately kill any enemy you meet on the battlefield as soon as you are physically capable. You are to change your behavior on this point immediately.

As for that damn catfolk you keep dragging along with you, I want you to melt down his sword or have Hurlish snap it over her knee. You are right that he shows promise, but he shows promise as a spearman alone. That you insist on using a rapier instead of a polearm is bad enough. I will not have you dragged down by some equally sentimental fool’s behavior. Tell him that the shots you were forced to waste on saving his life would not have been necessary if he’d just used a damn proper weapon instead of that idiotic officer’s sword.

The training you are providing Sara, on the other hand, is progressing well. She has a better appreciation for her strength than many similar soldiers, but her flare for the dramatic is concerning. Mostly because it is infecting you as well. Consciously or not, your order to have that Cultist shot was delayed until he began speaking. Do not let the satisfaction of cruel irony blind you to the fact you now possess remarkable, unequaled weapons. He should have died the first instant you glimpsed that wooden mask.

In conclusion, you are not ruthless enough in your pursuit of victory. Cruelty is not practicality, yet true triumph comes only from the utter ruination of your enemy. Going forward, I expect you to kill the enemy as rapidly and as efficiently as possible, seeking to ensure that the survivors not only surrender, but lose all will to fight against you for the remainder of their lives.

No response to this letter is necessary. You have always been the greatest of my students, and I have utmost faith that you will follow my orders.

Graf.

P.S.

One thousand pounds of gold bullion in exchange for ten barrels of ‘emcotton’ is offered, with the understanding that secrecy of material will be attempted but cannot be guaranteed from Sporaton agents. Due to the recognized unlikeliness of this offer being accepted, failure to respond will be interpreted as declining.

Evie looked up from the letter, blinking her eyes for the first time since she’d started reading. Fanlah was waiting patiently, her focus still on Evie despite the conversation having resumed elsewhere. She supposed she should have been curious about how Graf possessed such precise details regarding the skirmish in Ta-Tomo, but she wasn’t. She’d been a mere child when she’d given up understanding how he knew what he did. When dealing with a man who needed scribes to track how many kingdoms owed him debts, it was best not to overthink some things.

Slipping the torn paper back into the message tube, Evie bowed lightly to Fanlah.

“My thanks for delivering this message. I will relay your own gratitude to Master Graf when next we meet.”

“Excellent.” Fanlah’s wings shifted, and she turned her head toward the north, where the Powdered Lead’s camp was. “And the matter of meeting the Champion…?”

Evie blinked. If the wyvern had already brought that up, she had somehow missed it. She pursed her lips as she considered the unexpected question. “Though I do wish to offer you the honor, there are logistical concerns regarding her safety that might make it difficult to achieve in the short term. Are you intending to remain with the army for long?”

Fanlah sighed. The great exhalation stirred the rain falling around her, causing Evie’s raincloak to flutter where it was folded on her arm. The wyvern’s breath smelled like bile spilled from a sliced belly.

“Alas, I have other priorities. My chosen rider is visiting his family this week, and I have already spent too long away. His mother is sickly, you see.”

Evie nodded her understanding. “I would not wish to delay you, then. Should you visit this army again, I will attempt to arrange a meeting.”

Fanlah stood. The three remaining riders on her back, all of whom wore elaborate mage’s robes, leaned forward to grip the saddle. They had been silent through the entire visit, and didn’t deign to speak now, either. Giving Evie one last look, something mischievous glinting in her eye, Fanlah raised her wings and spoke again.

“You might want to grab a hold of something, Daughter of the Scalebreaker.”

Summoning her sword and stabbing it into the ground, Evie frowned. “I do not know how that ridiculous rumor spread even here, but I am not his daughter, no matter what—”

With a sound like the cracking of a thousand whips, Fanlah’s wings came crashing down. Evie was in an instant battered by a wind more fearsome than the foulest storm she’d ever known, and suddenly found herself barely able to maintain a grip on her sword. Through tear-blurred vision she saw a wall of dust erupt around Fanlah, a tsunami of wind that crashed into soldiers and tents alike, throwing canvas into the air and many poor unprepared souls off their feet, until eventually Evie was forced to close her eyes against the tempest.

When the wind died enough for her to blink once more, she was met with the sight of a devastated officer’s camp. Tents for a hundred yards or more had been upended and tossed aside, with some still whirling through the air even then. Several unfortunate few, caught with their backs to the blast, had fallen over hard enough to twist joints or crack their heads on obstacles. There were already calls going up for healers. It seemed only Evie and General Borek, who had also stabbed his weapon into the ground, hadn’t been taken by surprise. It was no credit to her. If she hadn’t been warned, she would have been tossed end over end.

Evie looked up, shading her eyes. She found Fanlah as a tiny dot in the sky, wings still bent low, as if she were still being carried up by the momentum of her first wingbeat. Evie watched the wyvern raise her wings, point herself in a southerly direction, and beat her wings once more. The burst of speed was so harsh that it reminded Evie of the slack being taken out of a rope, sending Fanlah darting away with the speed of an insect. A moment later, the sound of a second enormous whipcrack reached the ground, causing many to flinch, expecting another bout of wind, though there was none.

Evie set her jaw, frowning. Reaching into a pocket for her notebook, she scribbled a reminder to assign the nascent Air Force a higher percentage of Tulian’s discretionary budget.

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