A Perverted Path to Victory

Sara Brown

-------------------------------------

“How strong is your wife, truly?” The mage woman asked. She was Rotha Seng, a kinetic spellcasting specialist. One of Sara’s illusory selves had joined a table of primly eating mages and Warriors, those who were equally interested in the free dinner as they were any other purpose of the evening party.

Sara had few dealings with the Imperial mages in battle thus far, seeing as they’d been struggling to find a place amongst the ever-evolving strategy introduced by musketry. The debates on proper mage integration into firing lines was constant, bitter, and nowhere near resolution. Rotha was one of the mages most directly screwed over by the advent of blackpowder, as her specialty was flinging high-velocity rocks like a living trebuchet. Even on her best day, she’d been rendered obsolete by the advent of the field cannon. Despite that, she wasn’t one of the mages who had joined Mayaran’s anti-blackpowder faction. She seemed fascinated by the potential of artillery, and, though she didn’t know Sara was aware of this, had already petitioned General Borek to be placed under the authority of the Powdered Lead’s artillery commanders. Sara would refuse her if the request was formally made, but intended to string her along for as long as possible. No point in wasting favors freely offered.

“How strong is my wife?” Sara waved away a porter who offered her a plate of food. “I assume you mean Hurlish? She is the strongest of us, after all.”

“I do,” Rotha said. “I have not seen her at work in her forge myself, but I, as with the rest of the army, have heard the sound of her hammer striking its target. And, as I’m sure you’re aware, I have been lucky enough to purchase one of her pistols.”

The mage patted a spot beneath her formal robes, indicating the place that an empty holster sat. That, surprisingly, Sara hadn’t known. Hurlish’s side project of churning out cryslock pistols was bringing in a lot of money, but it was still a side project. Sara didn’t pay it much mind. That a mage had chosen to purchase one was very interesting to learn, however. Most of their sort made it a point of pride to not carry so much as a dagger into battle, so confident were they that their spells would carry the day. It was quite the culture shock for one to be proudly displaying a pistol.

Sara hummed thoughtfully. “It’s difficult to say how strong Hurlish is. Stronger than nearly any other person I’ve met, that’s for certain, but how much so?” She shrugged. “How could I ever tell? We’ve run out of ways to test. At the very least she can lift thousands of kilograms, but she didn’t struggle in the slightest with that. It’s been months since we’ve found something she couldn’t handle.”

“Now what does that mean?” A Warrior at the table asked. Sara’s Blessings told her that he was Atith Kos, a very fresh Warrior, having undergone his elevation ritual a month after Sara joined the Imperial army. “I don’t know how much a ‘keel-ah-gram’ is, but several thousands of any weight is too ridiculous to believe. And there’s no way for someone to simply ‘run out’ of things to lift,” he added.

“I can assure you, she lifted it. It was a load of cannons being hauled by crane onto a ship in Tulian, and she provided the power herself. But yes, you’re correct that there is always something heavier she could try to lift.” Sara took a sip of wine to give herself a break. A different conversation had just hit a touchy subject, and she had to temporarily divert more of her attention that way. Once the matter was dealt with, she continued. “The difficulty comes in her grabbing it. Her hands are only so large. No matter how strong you are, there are limits to what can be grabbed without destroying it. If my wife was strong enough to lift a mountain, for example, she still couldn’t. Her hands would simply rip chunks from the hillside. This is the problem with exploring her strength. Heavily loaded carts simply snap in her hands, boulders large enough to challenge her strength are wider than she can get a grip on, and we haven’t the time to construct some frivolously massive slab of lead that might be an equal to her.” Another sip, then a kind, proud, almost dreamy smile. “I wish we did, though. I already know my wives are remarkable. It would be wonderful to know just how remarkable they truly are.”

“Fascinating.” Rotha shook her head in mild disbelief. “I would ask if her mighty strength is the secret to the blacksteel armor you wear, but I already know that you cannot say. I wouldn’t want to insult you by implying you would give up such valuable knowledge.”

“Is it truly so important?” Sara asked. A perfect opportunity for one of her other objectives for the evening. “We could find no record of anyone successfully creating armor made of blacksteel in the north, but that was a shallow pond for us to search in. Has anyone in the Empire managed such a feat before?”

“Not that I am aware, General Brown,” Rotha answered. Then she smiled nervously. “And I have… ah, forgive me for what might be seen as intrusive, but I have put considerable effort into finding other examples of blacksteel armor in the historical record. I have found none. Not even an arm guard or gauntlet.”

“I could hardly find myself offended by that,” Sara assured her. “I’ve done much the same research, and found similar results.”

Rotha seemed glad to hear that. Why she’d thought it would be offensive to have done such simple research was baffling to Sara. Or rather it would have been, if not for her Blessings. Those magical aids told her that Rotha was worried Sara might think she was attempting to replicate the armor, seizing Sara’s heretofore unique advantage for herself. The Empire might not use patents as Sara was familiar with the term, but they did have powerful guilds and all the bickering that came with them. Though there was no law forbidding the copying of military or magical designs, those who pissed off the Empire’s greatest and most wealthy weaponsmiths didn’t tend to have long careers.

Despite the incredible skill of those guild members, Sara wasn’t concerned about her blacksteel armor being replicated anytime soon, if ever. Its creation had only been possible via the combination of Sara’s knowledge of welding, her Divinely-enhanced ability to summon precise lightning strikes, and Hurlish’s absurdly impossible strength. There were probably people out there who could replicate it, elven craftsmen or dwarven blacksmiths, but why would they? If they were that good at their work, they could almost certainly create a set of traditional armor so heavily enchanted that it provided a similar level of nigh-invulnerability, all without wasting a hideously expensive volume of precious blacksteel. Sara’s chestplate, though effective, was wasteful in the extreme.

“If you had no historical record to draw upon, the idea to create blacksteel armor must have been the product of your own inspiration, yes?” Rotha asked, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. It was a sentiment reflected in many of the other mages and Warriors present. “You had no precedent to draw from, no dusty archive in which you discovered the technique?”

“Nope.” Sara flashed a brash grin. “There’s only so many times a woman can come home dripping blood before her wife starts to complain about the carpet stains. Hurlish had had enough, and there’s no stronger motivation in the universe than someone that’s tired of their wife’s crap, is there?”

Laughs went around the table. That was one thing that Sara had found to be perfectly universal, endemic to every culture she’d ever encountered: light-hearted griping about your spouse. Everyone did it, everyone understood it, and so long as you didn’t take it far enough to actually seem bitter, the joke always landed.

As the laughter died down, one of Sara’s selves nodded to herself, satisfied. Two of her objectives for the evening had just been accomplished: ingratiating herself amongst the up-and-coming Warrior-mages of the Empire, and further cementing Hurlish’s reputation as a valuable blacksmith. An ancillary goal, that of confirming others hadn’t created blacksteel armor, had also been checked off the list.

As far as this little gaggle of mages and Warriors were concerned, Sara’s objectives were completed. If she’d just been one person, she would have excused herself in short order. But there was no need for that, was there? There were nineteen other versions of her walking around. She could milk this conversation for everything it was worth without sacrificing a single minute of work elsewhere. Her illusory self stayed, allowing that particular conversation to drift more naturally, all while she continued to more precisely guide the others.

“And they call us radicals!” Lieutenant Siongh spat, slamming a palm on the table. “Fools! All of them, fools!”

“But the Adjutant is deviating heavily from Imperial Code, is he not?” Sara innocently asked.

“Bah!” Siongh looked like he wanted to spit. “Only by the barest of technicalities. Their idiocy in plying the Emperor for aid and advice in every minor matter is more dangerous by far!”

Just as she’d hoped, the conversation had turned raucous. As a general rule, Imperials didn’t discuss politics outside the home. When cities had traded ownership a half dozen times in fifty years, true loyalty was a touchy, contentious topic, one that was better off avoided. That cultural artifact remained strong even in the army, where loyalties couldn’t be more obvious. It had taken Sara quite a while to draw Siongh and his fellow officers out of their shell, but she’d managed it. It also seemed that the taboo she’d snapped had been the last threadbare ribbon holding shut a floodgate.

“And to think they claim that our actions are courting disaster,” the woman at Siongh’s side growled. She was one of the pair of lieutenants who had been trying to restrain Siongh’s earlier temper, and she had the incongruously normal name of ‘Kim.’ It felt like a terribly normal American name to come out of the Empire, but Sara supposed coincidences had to happen eventually. With Sara having finally made it clear that she wouldn’t be standing on formal protocol, Kim had revealed nearly as fiery an attitude as Siongh, if never venturing quite as far into comments profane or blasphemous.

To Sara’s minor chagrin, her first unconscious instinct regarding Siongh and his two companions had been a bit off. Even after years spent away from Earth, she still caught herself parsing gender roles in old ways. Siongh, an up-and-coming military man, walking around with two women at his side who freely chastised him and stopped him from saying stupid shit? Sara had assumed the three of them were an item. When she’d turned the microscope of her Blessings upon them, it hadn’t been so. They were just regular friends, with Siongh being the one most prone to getting in trouble, the other two habituated to bailing him out. Maybe the assumption had been internalized misogyny, but Sara suspected projection was a better explanation. Evie and Hurlish had pulled her ass out of the fire enough times to establish a precedent, after all.

“But what’s so dangerous about asking the Emperor to actually rule the Empire?” Sara pressed. She lightly seasoned her tone with spite, giving the barest hint that she found the notion ridiculous. Inciting irritation was a good way to inspire frank honesty, even in those who’d normally avoid it. “Shouldn’t the Adjutant be just that- an adjutant? One who helps the Emperor rule, rather than doing the ruling themselves?”

“Oh, listen to yourself!” Siongh crowed angrily, drunkenly. Sara had noticed he was type to unconsciously mirror the body language of those he spoke to, and she’d been abusing that habit with liberal swigs from an illusory mug of beer. “The closest of the Honored Elven to the very gods, the holiest of Emperors, being asked to give his opinion on the establishment of tolls in some pissant handful of villages? Can you imagine!” His tail slipped through the handle of his mug, freeing his hands to gesticulate wildly, making hard, emphatic chops. “The Emperor is all but divine! He has ruled our people for twelve hundred years! To rely upon him to settle such petty disputes is nothing less than blasphemy!”

That accusation, at least according to Siongh and the brave few souls who had stuck around for the conversation, was what had sparked the civil war. It had started classically enough; a succession crisis when an Adjutant had unexpectedly died without naming or training a successor, then a hung jury among the nobility who were empowered to select the next Adjutant. Brewing tensions within hidden factions boiled over, with one side advocating that true worship of the Emperor required his heavy involvement in the political day-to-day, while others viewed him as something much closer to a true divinity, one which should involve itself only in the most critical of matters.

It seemed Sara had signed on with the latter faction. The elites like General Borek and his allies believed that Emperor Aydrion should be held sacrosanct, far above the petty concerns of the lesser creatures whose lives passed his immortal existence by in the blink of an eye. They made quite a show of their devotion in this regard. She’d known that the various Imperial cities she’d visited had temples to many gods, all in various states of disrepair or splendor, but she’d never taken special note of the fact that there were occasionally temples dedicated to the worship of Emperor Aydrion himself. He was something of a god-king, she’d known, so it only seemed reasonable for there to be temples in his name, and thanks to her hatred of both gods and kings, she’d never seen a reason to get a stress ulcer by investigating further. She should have, apparently. Those temples were unique to her chosen faction of the Civil War, and they took them very, very seriously.

“Aren’t you concerned that the Adjutant selected your faction simply to gather power for himself?” That question was more legitimate than some of her others. Surely the Imperials had to recognize the conflict of interest.

But Siongh only scoffed, slapping a palm on the table. “For what? How often those rebels love to bandy the word corruption about, yet what does the Adjutant get from his duties? A crushing burden and endless stress! He is watched by the court, the people, and the Honored Elven themselves. The only supposed ‘benefit’ he gets from such an arrangement is power, and what kind of man would seek power for selfish reasons when he can’t use it to benefit himself? Ridiculous!”

Sara hummed thoughtfully, nodding. She had to agree occasionally; managing a drunken soldier’s temper was a bit like balancing the gauge on a pressure vessel. Heat them up to the right amount with bellicose accusations, then let them cool down by pretending you’d been convinced by some argument or another. She was keeping him at just the right cross-section of fury and earnestness to get the most valuable performance.

She didn’t actually agree with the statement she’d just nodded to, however. Lieutenant Siongh was a fucking moron if he thought that there weren’t people who would seek power and authority for no reason other than to have it, and dumber still if he thought the Adjutant wasn’t surrounded by luxury. Sara decided that Siongh, born to a family of merchants poor enough to be nobility only in name, held this view more out of ignorance than he did foolishness. He’d never met the Adjutant, nor come even remotely close to him. He’d been wealthy enough to never do work he didn’t choose, yet was poor enough to have never met the people that made real decisions. That afforded him the chance to develop a view of the world untainted by pesky complexity.

For the most part, Sara had found out what she wanted from this conversation. The last nagging issue was a big one, though. What did Emperor Aydrion think of all this?

Sara knew the Elves were long-lived. Absurdly so. Twelve hundred years of rule left the current Emperor a junior, barely into his term as steward of the realm. She also knew that they cared very, very little for the fate of the buzzing gnats that coincidentally inhabited the cities they lived in. Ta-Pet had a number of elves living in it when the Powdered Lead and the Blackpowder Army took the city, yet they hadn’t raised a finger for or against its defense. That was normal, according to General Borek. If one of the artillery’s shots had gone wild and threatened to strike a tower occupied by an elf, it almost certainly would have been smacked aside by a spell and subsequently ignored. Outside of the very young or the very strange, elves didn’t involve themselves with petty mortal squabbles. Why bother? If there were riots in the street on a day you happened to fancy a stroll, you could just wait a year or five to try again.

But that apathy, Sara thought, shouldn’t extend to the Emperor. Right? He was the Emperor of this whole place. Sure, his kind didn’t give a shit about most human lives, but they were still the ones paying him taxes and, on occasion, burning down his cities. The fact that he hadn’t gotten involved after two centuries of intermittent war suggested that, inadvertently, Sara had picked the “right” faction, if such a thing existed. The Adjutant was Emperor in all but name, save for the fact that he obeyed the edicts passed down once or twice a decade. Couldn’t the whole war just be solved if they damn well asked the guy what he preferred?

Apparently not. Every time she contemplated asking the question, her Blessings lit up in high-alert mode. For some bizarre reason, that question was very far into “get punched in the jaw” territory. Not just with Siongh; with virtually every party-goer she conversed with, her Blessings told her the same thing: she could ask that question, but only if she thought she could beat whoever-it-was in a fistfight.

It seemed the proposal of asking the god-king to, y’know, fucking do something about his Empire ripping itself apart, was the equivalent of spitting in the pope’s eye. Asking for him to pass a decision was suggesting he was ignoring a duty, and suggesting he was ignoring a duty was suggesting he had made, gasp, a mistake. And that really was blasphemy in the most literal of senses; it was an explicit violation of written laws that forbid criticism of the Emperor. Worse yet, at an interpersonal level, the accusation was as good as telling a medieval Catholic that she’d just got done using the bible for toilet paper. Even the pope— or a Divine Chosen— couldn’t get away with that.

Personally, Sara really did think it came down to Aydrion’s apathy. That had been her theory all those months ago when she had first learned of the war, and it still held up under scrutiny. As far as the Emperor was concerned, what did the civil war matter? Both sides still paid him tax, they both followed any laws he put down, and the universal reverence for Honored Elven ensured that no one who actually “mattered” had been hurt. If Sara hadn’t come around, the Emperor probably wouldn’t have cared if there were a dozen Adjutants, or if the war lasted a thousand years, or if the entire mortal portion of his Empire broke into warring city-states. Not so long as they did what they were told.

But Sara had become involved. There was no one alive who could ignore a god-summoned Champion. And in the conversation she was having with General Borek and his closest commanders, the implications of that fact were being explored.

“In the past, as many as a dozen years have passed between the Emperor expressing interest in a topic and him addressing it,” General Borek said, swirling his wineglass. His first, barely touched. “On a few occasions, when the matter was particularly pressing, there were incidents of his Eminence acting within a mere two years after beginning deliberations. But a Holy Chosen is something that cannot be ignored for ten years, nor two.” General Borek tipped his glass toward Sara, bushy brows lowered in thought. “You are a conundrum, I’m afraid. We have no idea what he will do, nor when.”

The most important conversation of the evening, at least by the social rank of those present, was accordingly central to the gathering. General Borek sat at the dead center of a long, silk-covered table, piles of food and bottles of wine decorating its face in artful arrangements. Sara sat directly opposite him, Evie’s chair pressed against hers, so that their hips were touching. High-ranking officers and veteran Warriors occupied the nearest seats on either side of the table. Though there was a vague hierarchy of rank represented in the proximity of who sat closest to the general, it was imperfect, as was inevitable when guests showed up over a matter of several hours. Sara could tell that several of the lower-ranked people who’d managed to snag a good seat were inordinately proud of themselves, even those who had so far been too timid to actually use the chance to speak up.

Sara was neatly cutting the exotic meat on her plate into small cubes, using a silver spike that had been provided to bring it to her mouth. Occasionally she fed Evie a bite, less because she wanted one, and more because it was fun to watch the unaccustomed squirm at the bizarre behavior. Divine Chosen were exotic, strange people from unfathomably distant lands, so she had considerable social leeway to work with. It was a resource she’d usually exchanged to keep Evie in her lap through most social functions, but this was an unfortunate exception. She’d settled for them sitting side-by-side, chairs and legs bumping together. Sara could, just barely, leverage her other good graces to keep the blatant display of affection from ruining a given discussion.

Worth it, she thought as she fed Evie another bite. Her wife’s tattooed slave collar, as always, had been left starkly visible by a dress selected for its exceptionally low neckline. Those who weren’t yet used to Sara and Evie’s antics couldn’t seem to decide between gawking at the tattoo, Evie’s ears and tail, or the playful manner in which they rubbed against each other. She let them stare, however. She didn’t care enough to make an issue of it. Not until it became politically convenient to, at least.

“If we don’t know what the Emperor will do,” Sara said, setting her utensils down, “and we have no way of finding it out, I say that the only reasonable course is to act as we always have. So long as this army continues to act in the best interests of the Empire, we will surely align ourselves with the Emperor’s will, no?”

General Borek chuckled darkly. “A wise enough plan, but one terribly lacking in detail. I would not dare pretend to know his holy plans. I can only pray that the gods give me a fraction of the guidance they provide him.”

Though suppressed by her Blessings before manifesting itself, Sara’s jaw wanted to clench. What she’d said had been a simple enough statement, one intended to provide Borek with the justification to continue doing whatever the hell he pleased, looming threat of the Emperor’s displeasure be damned. It was an excuse that worked on levels both logical and religious. But the General was apparently too pious to accept even such a softball offer.

“Do you think that a similar paralysis of indecision explains the latest scouting reports, perhaps?” Sara mused, feeding Evie another bite. “How long was it that the enemy has failed to continue their southward march? A week?”

“Eight days,” General Borek said. “And it has perhaps been longer, as it has only been eight days since our scouts located their encampment.”

As Evie chewed, her tail thumped in Sara’s lap, her face a mask. The scouting report, received earlier that day, was rather confounding. After more than two months of traveling fifteen miles a day— a brutal pace for any army, much less one that lacked pack animals— the three disparate rebel forces had simply… stopped. It had been the talk of the command echelons all afternoon, and had predictably dominated conversation at this party, as well. Foot scouts and griffons alike had failed to penetrate the picket line, and so hadn’t laid eyes on their camp itself to get a hint at what was happening.

The simplest theory was that discipline had broken down after so much hard marching, forcing a prolonged period of rest, recuperation, and re-conditioning of those that must be punished for disobedience. But that wasn’t the only explanation. A popular alternative was that the enemy, still behind in the race to produce and train their soldiers with muskets, had elected to shelter in place, accumulating a reserve while they were still just barely in range of the urban blacksmiths making their weapons. At the extreme end of the scale, the most conspiracy-minded individuals amongst the army were already asserting that the rebels were so fearful of the Blackpowder Army that they were willing and ready to summon demons to their aid, and were even now preparing a sorcerous ritual to do so. Sara didn’t favor that theory, not because she thought the enemy was above it, but rather because she didn’t think the Blackpowder Army was intimidating enough to warrant such a drastic response.

From the tail bouncing in her lap, Sara knew Evie had already formed her own idea. Sara gave her a squeeze to encourage her to speak up.

“Are there any signs of the enemy armies uniting?” Evie asked. “They separated for speed of travel, as is Imperial doctrine, and any sign of their unification would be an excellent clue as to their intentions.”

“We cannot say at this point in time, I’m afraid,” General Borek sighed. “Whatever their intentions, they are quite intent on not allowing anyone close enough to study their actions. We only know their location in the vaguest of manners, simply because our scouts begin to encounter resistance as they travel along certain roads.”

“Unfortunate.” Evie speared a small piece of meat for herself, chewing primly, and then summoned her handkerchief to wipe her mouth. “Though a more detailed report would allow me to have more confidence in this assertion, I still believe that I know the cause of their stoppage.”

“Oh?” General Borek and several of the other officers were visibly intrigued by that. Sara was too, to be honest. She hadn’t had a chance to discuss the matter with her yet.

“As you are aware, Master Graf Urs is advising the enemy,” Evie said. “Some of you might be familiar with him, I assume. He has fought in these lands before.”

“Yes,” an older colonel said. He was a heavily scarred orcish man, and he scowled. “A hundred members of the Knights Eye spent a year in the service of our Emperor, putting down an incursion of Other-Things near the capital. Graf Urs did not fight himself, but his soldiers were… remarkable.”

“Terrifying, I believe you mean,” Evie corrected matter-of-factly. “The thousand members of the Knights Eye are mighty enough to force kingdoms to their knees, and that is no exaggeration. They have done so before, and they will likely do so again. Master Graf did not acquire such a force by coincidence. He trained them.”

Ah, Sara thought, instantly understanding. Just like the first war, when Graf decided to train the peasants, forcing us to assault him.

Evie continued speaking. “I have spoken with him personally in the last few weeks, and so know that he was brought in by the rebellion in order to advise them on the proper employment of blackpowder weapons. Though I would not pretend to have a glimpse into his tactical or strategic genius, I know this much about my old Master. Master Graf does not believe in victory through numbers. Any force, no matter how numerically superior, will suffer fewer casualties if they are better trained, armed, and armored than their opponents. Whatever tactic he has suggested to the enemy, it will begin with the improvement of their soldiers.”

“You believe the enemy has stopped a month-long southern blitz to… perform drills?” Another man asked. Lirun, Sara recalled. He was a simple-minded but extremely accomplished Warrior, his battlefield skill limited only to individual prowess. He’d never been given a command. Though he was a human, not an orc, he was bulky enough to make his chair creak ominously as he leaned forward to speak. “They were marching themselves half to death for weeks, trying to beat us out onto the open plains, and now you think they’ve decided to squat in place and practice marching in circles?”

“Yes,” Evie stated firmly. “Master Graf does not tolerate incompetence amongst his troops. If they hired him with intent to truly heed his words, they will not be relying on something so tenuous as a three-to-one numerical advantage.”

“Tenuous,” Lirun scoffed. “If only our disadvantages could be described as such.”

“Master Graf has already lost once to an army commanded by my wife.” Evie began cutting off a new slice of meat from her plate. “One in which he outnumbered her three-to-one and had ostensible superiority in quality of troops. That it is now thirty thousand against ninety thousand instead of five thousand against fifteen thousand matters little.” She popped a piece of meat into her mouth and chewed, meeting Lirun’s gaze. “You are a skilled Warrior yourself. Do you think you could survive a thousand-man musket volley aimed for your chest? You’ll have to, if we allow the enemy enough time to train and equip themselves.”

His lip curled. “I’d have to be a fool to allow myself to be caught in the open as such.”

“Yes.” Evie stared pointedly at him. “It wouldn’t be terribly difficult to avoid such an obvious predicament. Unless, of course, the enemy was being influenced by history’s most accomplished general, famed for maneuvering his opponents into devastating traps.”

“I do not believe we need to concern ourselves with that,” General Borek interrupted, cutting the sniping off before it could escalate. “Our agents indicate that Graf Urs has been hired to train and advise only. He will not be given a position of command in battle.”

Though she didn’t let it escape into the open air, Sara chuckled to herself. We thought the same during our war. Then a few weeks of training and him in command turned spear-wielding peasants into an army that nearly ran down cannons and rifles.

She still had dreams about it sometimes. That final charge, when the Knights had come rushing in, crashing into the cannon line. They’d won that battle by coincidence alone. Less than coincidence, in fact. They’d won it because her orders had been disobeyed. If her troops had been more disciplined, the cavalry charge wouldn’t have ended up trapped in the tight-pressed melee that led to their slaughter. And that had been fighting against an army barely under Graf’s control, his orders constantly meddled with by the King, Graf’s heart against the entire conflict. Judging by their dour expressions, some of those present seemed to understand what she already knew: if Graf took command, victory was impossible.

“I believe you are correct, General,” Evie said, reassuring the more pessimistic individuals. “Even if offered command of the enemy’s army, Master Graf will refuse it. He has stated openly that he has no desire to fight the gods’ Chosen. It was only loyalty to his King that drove him to such extremes in our war.”

“You seem to have a great deal of confidence in your judgement of Graf Urs’ character,” the man to General Borek’s direct right said. Colonel-Warrior Vithara, the commander of the sole remaining regiment still armed primarily with sword and spear, colloquially called the Division of Warriors. Once a highly regarded tactician, his conservative reluctance to adopt blackpowder weapons had been souring his reputation as the months went by. That same conservative attitude had made him one of the foremost proponents of the idea that the enemy had merely stopped to regain discipline, for no reason other than it being the simplest of explanations. He certainly looked the part of the antiquated veteran; bent and scarred, wounds from blade, spell, and age mottling every inch of his tanned hide. “I understand that you were trained by him in swordsmanship, yes?”

“I was,” Evie confirmed. “The Night’s Eye were quartered on my House’s grounds in the capital of Sporatos, and I became familiar with him from a young age.”

Sara thought of breaking into the conversation then, sensing an opportunity to pursue yet another of her dozen objectives for the night, but quickly decided to hold herself back. This was very nearly the most Evie had ever spoken during a strategy meeting. She was otherwise reluctant, deferring to Sara as often as possible, which she privately justified by claiming Sara’s Blessings gave her a better sense of things, both in discussion and of battles. Evie considered herself an expert in tactics, not strategy, and acted like it. No matter how much Sara prodded her.

Discussion of Graf seemed to be doing the trick that Sara never could. She’d wanted to knock Warrior-Colonel’s reputation down a few pegs with well-timed snark, but abandoned that immediately. Getting Evie to creep out of Sara’s shadow was a larger priority by far.

“But he did not train you to be a general?” Vithara asked. Sara’s Blessings looked him over. Average heart rate, sweating on-par for the weather, and no alcohol in his system, despite two empty glasses of wine in front of him and a third halfway gone. He’d had the waiters bring him dyed water, it seemed. A conservative, yes, but a shrewd one.

“No, of course not,” Evie said dismissively. “I am no general, nor did I ever aspire to be one. My talent is in the crossing of swords.”

Vithara did his best to smile kindly. On his broken face, it was an ugly thing. “And on this self-admitted ignorance, you try to say that you can predict the enemy’s strategy in its entirety? That the mere presence of your old master gives you insight into the motivations of a foe we have been fighting for decades?”

“I have provided an explanation,” Evie tersely replied. “I merely state that the reported behavior of the enemy is consistent with that I would expect of a force being advised by Master Graf.”

“Spurious, then,” he said. “Without evidence.”

Evie’s eyes narrowed. Even Sara had to resist the urge to lean away from her wife. Many at the table didn’t have the same self-control, leading to a wave of torsos bending like grass in the breeze as they instinctively created distance from Evie.

“You are correct,” she stated, her Sporaton accent thickening. “I have no insight into the behavior of the enemy’s primary advisor, save for the personal testimony of a student who received his tutelage for a decade: myself.”

General Borek opened his mouth to say something, but Sara caught his eye in a flash, giving the slightest shake of her head to silence him. This was exciting. Evie’s relationship with Graf had never been challenged. Not like this, anyway. Fuck the politics. Sara had to see what she’d do.

Vithara let out a rumbling, phlegmy chuckle. “As I said. You’ve much confidence in your assessment of him.”

“And why shouldn’t I?”

In the midst of sawing off another slice of meat, he stabbed his fork at her chest. “Because you, dear, are a child. You’ve grown up amongst your northern squabbles, where some few hundred men and women get it into themselves to go bashing at one another with sharp sticks to decide how some tiny little parcel of land should be divvied up. You’ve not seen war. Not like we have.”

Even knowing it was incredibly ill-advised, Sara felt herself vibrating with excitement. Warrior-Colonel Vithara had clearly been dragged into Mayaran’s camp at some point or another, probably because he resented the threat that blackpowder represented to the way of war he knew, but that hardly mattered. Though he couldn’t know it, he was forcing Evie’s back up against the wall, making her acknowledge aspects of herself that she preferred to ignore. She was an expert in strategy, she was Graf’s protege, and she was most certainly capable of tearing apart this old fool in conversation, no matter how much her blow-up with Mayaran had harmed her confidence.

“A correction, Colonel. Before the Tulian-Sporaton war, I hadn’t seen any conflict at all, save a failed attempt to rob my carriage when I was young. I’m even less experienced than you supposed.” With a quick pluck of her fingers, Evie snapped the leg off a roasted bird on her plate. “But that hardly matters when I am discussing what Master Graf would or would not do, no?”

Vithara sneered. “That arrogance of yours is going to get you killed some day, girl. You said it yourself: you aren’t a general, and you never will be. And if you think you can predict what one might do, you’re nothing more than a fool.”

Sara’s eyes snapped open. Everyone in earshot of Vitahra’s comment froze, staring in shock.

Evie sniffed. “If—”

Sara squeezed her leg. Evie fell silent, glancing curiously at Sara, but she ignored her.

With the crackling groan of the great milling wheels used to grind blackpowder to dust, Sara’s neck turned toward Vithara. The silence at the table was being recognized elsewhere, and it spread, until there were very few people left talking at all.

“Apologize,” Sara said. The single word was delivered flatly, devoid of any emotion. It took an incredible amount of willpower to leave it like that.

Looking around him, Vithara seemed to become aware of the error he’d made. His heart rate accelerated as he began to sweat, licking his lips.

“I simply reminded her of what she herself had told us,” he said, trying for a nonchalant tone.

Sara stared. Deep in the back of her mind, there seemed to be a quiet hiss. A fuse.

“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” Vithara tried. “She’s no fool, General, I know that. I was only trying to cut to the—”

“Apologize.” Sara’s voice had a deep, echoing timbre to it. She hadn’t put it there intentionally, but it seemed to reverberate in the hollow cavities of her bones nonetheless.

“I meant no offense!” The grizzled veteran had visible sweat stains beneath his arms now. The entire party had fallen into silence, no one daring to so much as take a step, not even the porters. “Why should I offer an apology for something that wasn’t an insult?”

“Because,” Sara said softly, “I told you to.”

Vithara’s mouth opened, gaping like a fish. Then it closed. Opened again. And closed once more. He looked around, probably searching for Mayaran, only to discover she wasn’t in attendance.

He could bear no more. Swallowing hard, he bowed his head to Evie.

“I apologize, Commander Evie. I overstepped my bounds. The mistake is mine, and I have no… no excuse.”

Evie had never more looked the part of a ruling noblewoman. As she looked at Vitahra, the silver cutlery in her hand may as well have been the gleaming edge of an executioner’s axe.

“...You are forgiven,” she said, only after considerable length. “Your arguments are understood, but I find them uncompelling.”

“Of course.” Vithara stood, chair scratching lines in the dirt. He hastily bowed as he spoke. “General Borek. General Brown. Commander Evie. If you’ll allow my leave?”

“You are excused, of course,” General Borek said. He was no stranger to politics either. Nothing in his voice hinted at the awkward display he’d just witnessed. “Have a pleasant evening, and give your wife my regards.”

“Of course, sir.”

Vithara departed. Sara let herself relax, turning her attention back to the table in front of her.

Hm, she thought, staring at the knife she’d been holding. It was folded in half. I hope that’s expensive to fix.

She watched Vithara’s sweaty back depart with no small amount of relish. A porter appeared at her side in short order, offering her a replacement set of utensils, which she accepted, returning to her meal. The conversation slowly resumed, the topics much changed. Many of her illusory selves were being asked in hushed tones what, exactly, had just occurred, and she eagerly leapt upon the opportunity to control the narrative right from the start. Predictably, the rest of the evening went much smoother.

Maybe, she popped another piece of meat into her mouth, washing it down with wine, attending these shitshows won’t be quite as agonizing as I expected.

-------------------------------------

Evie Brown

-------------------------------------

To her disappointment, Sara did not immediately gain another Level upon leaving the event. Evie certainly felt she’d deserved it, if the old stories about the rate of Champion’s advancement were true. Particularly after her spine-tingling display with Vithara. It had been gratifying in the extreme to see Sara, however briefly, truly assume the mantle befitting her status.

Alas, the gods seemed to believe there was more work to be done. She, Hurlish, and Sara had awoken without ceremony the next morning, falling back into their usual routines. While the morning rains still pattered, Hurlish had gone to help pack up her forge, leaving Evie and Sara to go through the usual drudgery of running a mercenary company, Tahn resting in his crib nearby. Evie reviewed reports, reading them aloud to Sara, who was performing her morning exercises, sword swishing as she eviscerated a shadowy opponent. Sara would occasionally chime in on something or another, usually a matter of interpersonal relations between officers and soldiers, but otherwise left the more concrete matters to Evie’s discretion.

Evie fell into her work for a time, moving figures from page to page. The finances of the Powdered Lead were a finicky thing, delicate enough that they could easily fall into disarray. The more they earned, whether through loot or contract, the more they spent. Fifty grains of blackpowder and a half-inch lead ball was not nearly as expensive as a fletched arrow, but it was not inconsequential, and could not be recovered once expended. That Sara viewed every coin in their coffers as another opportunity to increase the number of shots fired during drills was an endless stress on their finances, mostly due to the volatility of expenditures it created. Evie agreed that the expertise the troops were gaining was important, and knew that the enjoyable afternoons spent knocking down targets was excellent for morale, but still found herself wanting to complain. It would have made things so much simpler to determine a high but sustainable rate of ammunition usage. Professor Brown’s mathematics lessons had, at least, introduced some very useful techniques for managing the numbers. She and Vesta were eager for the day that his knowledge left Tulian with the shrewdest bankers across the continent.

Evie was woken from her fugue of numbers and algebra by a knock at the tent pole, followed by a high, reedy voice that did not wait for a response before speaking.

“Message from Miss Hurlish, ma’am!” The shadow at the tent flap called. “She said that she had to go’n get something done right quick, but some of the kids had shown up while she was at the forge, and since she didn’t want to leave ‘em all alone, she was asking one of you to come keep an eye on ‘em!”

Evie shared a frown with Sara even as she stood, carefully stacking the papers into a drawer. “And she sent… you?”

“Yes’m!” The messenger replied. They were young enough that Evie couldn’t tell what gender they were, and when she opened the flap to peer down at them, still wasn’t quite sure. It was an Imperial child dressed in thick rags, barely into the second digit of their years. Doubtlessly another child Hurlish had found a fondness for, and therefore paid far too much for the delivery of this message.

Evie glanced back at Sara, who was still half-dressed, her body slick with sweat from her exercises. Sara made a face, pointing to Tahn’s crib.

It’s my turn with him, she mouthed. Evie rolled her eyes.

“Miss Hurlish also said it didn’t matter which’n you came,” the child added presciently. “Could be Miss Evie or the Chosen, just so long as someone made sure none of the little’ns hurt themselves messing with things while she was gone.”

“Sara,” Evie reflexively corrected, strapping on her pistol belt. “The Chosen prefers to be addressed by her first name only.”

“I heard that, too, ma’am, but my Pa said he’d whip me good if he heard me disrespectin’ her sorts again. So.” The child shrugged, as if everything necessary had already been said.

“Well, best not to disobey your Pa, then,” Evie replied sardonically. She glanced back at Sara. “I trust you’ll be fine on your own?”

Sara snorted. “Yeah, pretty sure. And don’t worry. I’m not gonna go over there and screw up any of your math while you’re gone.”

“To see paperwork willingly raised in your hands would be a shock my heart could not survive.” Evie leaned forward, giving Sara a quick kiss before departing.

The morning rains were light that day. Closer to a heavy fog, more than anything. But it was still enough to leave most of the soldiers in their tents, unwilling to go about the rest of the day’s march in wet, chafing clothing. Due to the lack of foot traffic, the route that would have taken ten or fifteen minutes in the afternoon instead took a mere five.

However, she found herself surprised when she came upon Hurlish’s forge. It was half-dissassembled, as she’d expected, and there were the usual faces of those who had been tasked with aiding her wife in transporting it in backpacks and rickshaws, but that was it. No children at all.

Evie scanned the premises, ears flicking. After a moment, she spotted one child, sitting alone on a bench, their chin resting in their palm. Though he’d turned his head to face away from Evie, she could still recognize young Keo at a glance. She approached him quickly, taking a knee next to his log bench. His twitch at her arrival proved he’d heard her approach, but he still didn’t turn to face her.

“Where are the rest of the children, Keo?” Evie asked. “Hurlish sent for me to watch after them. Have they already run off?”

“Mmjusht me,” he mumbled sullenly, still not looking at her.

“Just you?” She glanced around once more, confused, then back to Keo. “What do you mean?”

“Shaid ish jusht me,” he grumbled, glancing her way for a brief moment. “What? Ish what I told ya—”

She seized his chin in a blink, forcefully turning his face toward her. She’d caught a brief glance of some discoloration on his face and wanted to inspect it. She expected him to have a burn or bruise from making a fool of himself in the brief few minutes of Hurlish’s absence.

Instead, she sucked air through her teeth. The right side of the boy’s face was a sickly palette of purples, greens, and yellows. His eye was swollen painfully shut, so full of blood that it was leaking through the skin like pus from an infected cyst. Many tiny cuts and abrasions joined the ugly collection, each weeping a small amount of blood that ran like tears down the skin.

Evie had seen injuries like this before, but not since the war with Sporatos. The Imperials did not make use of maces. This wound could normally only happen to a human skull when a helmet had just barely saved its wearer from being killed by a series of vicious, brutal swings. Ones thrown in a rage. Meant to kill. Though she couldn’t see it through the swelling, she wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Keo’s right eye had burst, and she knew for a fact that he was suffering from severe skull fractures. It was astounding that the boy was conscious.

Keo’s lone open eye welled up with tears.

“That hurtsh, ma’am,” he managed to squeak.

She released his chin and shot to her feet.

“What happened? Did Hurlish see you?”

“She did, yeah,” he nodded. He began to cry. “I tried to tell her ish washn’t my Da’s fault, ma’am, but she didn’t shay mush—”

Evie was already gone, feet flying across the ground as she raced to catch up with Hurlish.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!