NONE SO VILE

17: Another Angel

Barendo, Yaravania, 1804. 

“She went down easy!" Alabaster looked across at the man dragging the heavy chest in through Fort Endo's dog gate. The wooden corners carved up the mud, and then scraped across the brick. “Fuck the Yaravins, fuck the Kibes, they all cowards I say!" A small cheer rippled through the various labourers and support soldiers. These men and women weren't combatants – they were here to make sure Leon's killers stayed fed, clothed, and healthy. Or at least, healthy enough to fight. 

She did go down easy, didn't she? Alabaster caught himself looking up at the limestone walls. As he watched, drummer boys climbed out from the inner peepholes, hacking at the ropes that held the Yaravanian flags. The white tree flailed as it fell from the wall, piling in the wet much outside. Was it too easy? 

The 'siege' of Fort Endo had ended before Alabaster knew it began. By all accounts, the garrison had been even fewer men than the initial reports had guessed – it was practically half-abandoned.

It begged a question, sticking in Alabaster's craw like a chicken bone. Had Yaravania simply forgotten about this defensible position, and one so close to the border of Rennaire, a country they'd declared war on more than a year ago? Or what if they don't need it? What if they left something behind for us? 

The soldiers didn't bother hiding their queer looks as they watched Alabaster drop his colourful tinctures into the well-water, testing it for signs of poison. He stirred it, sighing as he noticed a stocky bear finally push to his feet out the corner of one eye. 

The bear came lubering over, chewing on something in one side of his mouth. He was a lieutenant, and stared for a moment at the ladle Alabaster raised before he spoke. “We're s'posed to drink that." 

Alabaster said nothing, and satisfied that his sample was uncontaminated, dropped it back into the well.

“What'd you do to it, witchdoctor? I know your stories, I know what they say." The bear flared his nostrils, huffing when it became clear he wasn't getting a reply. “We don't know what kinds of spells you put the director under, but I won't be falling for it, you can keep your pox-sick water, I say. You hear me, ice-blood?" 

Why bother trying to help these people when all they do is spit on you. Alabaster turned away from the bear, making to leave the fort's inner courtyard. 

“Hey, don't you walk away!" The lieutenant growled, reaching out and snatching Alabaster's arm. “I'm a decorated soldier of rank! I don't care who you is, you listen up when a bloody war hero talks, you filth!" 

The dragon slipped from his grip easily, his dagger whisked into a claw as he spun and pressed the tip of his kriss to the soft flab beneath the bear's jowls. “Hero, yes. I believe that's what they call it when you kill so many people the word murderer falls short." He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “Dare say I'm quite the hero too, then, fat boy." 

He had to restrain himself. How his muscles ached to bury the blade in the obstinate bear's jaw, to twist the metal and delight in the blood bubbling and spurting down his wrist, watching the sudden shock seep from the dullard's eyes like wind abandoning a sail. 

It would be funny if Leon was forced to execute you for killing his soldiers, wouldn't it? Would he do it, you think? Alabaster had no doubt, Leon was many things, but not squeamish, and certainly not afraid to do what had to be done. He could not kill this man, but the lieutenant didn't know that.

“Keep biting the paw that feeds and see where you get," Alabaster snapped. “I was checking for poison. You can drink now." Quick as a flash his dagger was returned to its sheath, hidden in the folds of his cloak as if it had never existed. The bear blinked stupidly, and Alabaster once again turned away, leaving the courtyard behind.

Fort Endo certainly felt abandoned, he couldn't deny that much. If this was a charade it was an exceptionally well-orchestrated one. The bricks in the walls were chipped and pocked, the mortar between them crumbling away bit-by-bit. Dust covered every surface, and there were stuffy rooms that had obviously not been used in some time – the previous garrison was so small, there'd obviously been no need for them. 

Those empty rooms were now awash with soldiers. They scurried like rats, carting weapons and supplies, yelling and cursing at one another, joking and singing about the battle to come with Kiberland. They were in good spirits, but seeing their smiles only made Alabaster's mood sour further. Idiots.

Despite how much Leon seemed to be thriving, campaign life had gotten old for Alabaster six months ago. At first the soldiers had been broad and annoying. Now, he could hardly look at one without feeling a sickening mixture of fury and disgust that curled his fingers and toes. They were loud, braggish, stupid, and full of arrogant pride. All of them hated him, and he hated them right back. 

He was bored, and tired, and alone. Nearly a year spent travelling and fighting, and the Rennairan army had yet to encounter a single enemy Angel. Plenty of guns, but no monsters. Alabaster felt useless. He had none of his research equipment, and so none of his work could progress. Instead, he pottered around like an old man, inventing stories of poisoned well water if only to give himself something to do.

The only reason he'd begun reviving the enemy's dead in the first place was the pathetic attempt to alleviate the crushing boredom. 

On top of that, he and Leon hardly ever spoke, and the few times they did it was always in the presence of his marshals, or that stupid rat Jacques that was always clinging to his coattails. Damn it, he wanted to argue. He wanted to speak freely with Leon, without hovering servants. On top of it all his hips felt tense and pent-up, he needed to fuck something. 

Alabaster hated how much territory that man had taken in his mind. Moreso, he hated how much he still felt for the stubborn jaguar.

Every time the guns fired, his chest tightened. Despite knowing better, his mouth ran dry, and his heart picked up as he worried about Leon. Nine times out of ten the jaguar wasn't even anywhere near the fighting, he was in command, not on the front lines. Alabaster had hoped that their recent distance would help alleviate those feelings, but it had only made things worse. Leon was constantly on his mind, and he found himself craving the chance to even look at the jaguar.

When he'd overheard the marshals bad-mouthing Leon, his first instinct had been to draw his knife and stab them. 

Is that who you are now? An insecure braggart so love-sick you start drunken brawls? 

That was the worst part. He knew how ridiculous it was. Despite everything they'd shared, Leon still irritated him to no end.

And yet, throughout all this boredom, and isolation, and impotency, Alabaster had felt nothing but a sharp want. It was undefinable, an amorphous weight within him. Despite all the anger and resentment, Alabaster would have given anything to have another argument with that stupid, insufferable man.

“Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot." 

He let out a breath he'd been holding. These thoughts were pointless, and yet he grappled with them a dozen times a day.

It's the boredom. Thoughts have to go somewhere. Maybe you just want to fuck him again. Alabaster couldn't deny that he did, he fell asleep almost every night after getting himself off to the memory of that one moment they'd spent together.

“Bastard. Such a bastard." He wanted to kill him. Then kiss him. Then kill him again. 

Exorcising those thoughts from his mind, the dragon continued to check the fort for signs of booby-traps. Just because it seemed unlikely, didn't mean it wasn't possible. 

Unfortunately, he found nothing. No secret passages, no poisoned wells, and no hidden explosives. The army wasn't eating any of the food that had been stored here as a precaution, but he tested what he could anyway, and found it too was undisturbed.

Is it truly just incompetence? The other strange part was throughout all his scouring, Alabaster had yet to find the prisoners. The fort might have been half-abandoned, but where was the half-garrison that had surrendered? Did they let them go already? 

“Prisoners?" Leon asked, without looking up from the pieces on his map. Purple and blue light streamed down over him, the sun beaming through the stained glass windows of the war-room. It was the most comfortably furnished of the fort's rooms that Alabaster had seen, and he guessed that before the occupation it had served as a chapel to the One God. Leon had no qualms about religious desecration.

The jaguar cocked his head at one of his pieces, nudging it aside. “What prisoners?" 

Alabaster endured the fastidious glares from the four marshals waiting around the table, trying to ignore the embarrassment he felt at the dismissiveness in Leon's tone. “The men who were garrisoned here before we took the fort. I want to speak with them." 

“What on earth could they have to say that is of any importance?" Marshal Pierre asked, cleaning his nails with a file. “It was a skeleton crew, Citizen Alabaster, stocked with men who had pissed on the boots of the wrong commander at one point or another in their career. They were sent out here and forgotten, as punishment, happens all the time." The young fox shrugged, blowing on his trimmed nails. “Put them from your mind, they'll be sent on their merry way soon enough." 

“But only after we deal with Kiberland," Leon added, frowning at his map. 

Marshal Laurent scoffed at that, almost as if he were offended on the prisoners' behalf. “Surely you don't think they would betray an agreement made under truce?"

Leon shrugged, straightening up to get a different view of the map. “I would."

“The rules have changed, grandfather," Pierre said to Laurent. The fox grinned at the older otter, showing his teeth as the other marshals snickered. “Please try to keep up." 

“Watch your tongue, welp." Laurent was fifty-four, by no means ancient, but certainly older than the typical commissioned officers in Leon's new army. The new Rennaire was younger, and leaner; even Leon himself was only thirty. 

“Enough with the bickering," Leon muttered, shaking his head. He couldn't seem to put less care in what they were talking about, his mind was only on Kiberland's army, and the coming battle.

“Regardless, they surrendered peacefully and will not be harmed," Laurent huffed at Pierre. “There is still some honour to be found in war." 

“If you say so," Alabaster added. As soon as the needling comment left his lips, he felt unsure as to why he'd said it. You like Laurent, as well as anyone can like a soldier. Why barb him like that? Can you never restrain yourself? He felt suddenly stupid for coming in the first place. Leon didn't have the time for him, and all the marshals were looking at him like he was no different to Jacques; some kind of weird maid that was always at the jaguar's heels.

“Kiberland will come tomorrow, and I expect another early battle," Leon said, now turning to face the window. “We'll attack as we did against Yaravania, pushing in fast with the fort at our backs, but this time with two columns. We have to end the conflict quickly, keep up our momentum." 

“And what of their Angel?" Asked Pierre, glancing between the other marshals. “Word from the scout reports say that Leutgard Volker is with them." A murmur passed between the four officers.

“The Forty-fifth," Laurent muttered. Alabaster noticed the otter's face tighten at the edges. 

“Do you know her?" He asked. The other two marshals shot him a glare at the interruption, but Laurent only nodded. 

“She was there back in 1802, when we fought against Cielwen." The room waited for him to continue, but the marshal remained silent. 

Alabaster had heard of the forty-fifth before. In conventional wars, the use of Angels was rare despite their capabilities. There was a silent agreement between nations not to deploy them unless absolutely forced to – they were merely banked around as mutual deterrents. Nobody wanted to be the first to open that box, because if you used your Angel, then they could use theirs. Most Angels were satisfied with this arrangement, they enjoyed being considered dangerous without having to ever actually create the danger. 

However, Leutgard was different. Whether she couldn't be controlled, or was simply assigned to particularly bloodthirsty leaders Alabaster did not know, but either way, she was responsible for killing four Angels over the last three decades. Killing one was a rare event for their own kind, but four was a phenomenon. 

“So, no chance of them holding back," Marshal Pierre hazarded. “Perhaps we should consider retreat. General Yves has an army nine days to the south, we could connect with him and return here to face Kiberland." 

“No!" Leon snapped. “They have a smaller force, but they assume Leutgard will make up the difference. Kiberland's King and the other monarchs cannot abide what we have created in Rennaire, they will never restrain themselves against us. This is the time for us to prove that we can withstand their power. That is why Alabaster is here." 

“I am not sure about this," Laurent added, the quieter marshals murmuring their agreement. “Nobody here is doubting your ability, First Director, but you have personally faced down two Angels. More than anyone in history. Without you, a squad of these–"

“Whoever said it would be without me?" Leon asked. He narrowed his eyes at Laurent, stepping forward. Alabaster felt his presence, felt the way the other men cowered back. “I will lead the Ishim squad against Leutgard. I will kill her."

“Madness!" Laurent replied. “First Director, please, reconsider." 

“I have to agree," Alabaster said. “It is a ridiculous notion." 

“Alabaster if I want your advice I will ask for it," Leon said dismissively. Alabaster snorted, glancing away. 

And did you ask me to come prop up your feelings when the marshals were being unkind? Was my support requested when you fought against Yaravania? Did you think that peptalk came about by chance, Leon? Was the jaguar really so stupid that he couldn't tell when someone knew they were helping him? 

“Very well," was all he said, stepping back. 

“The First Director is our commanding officer," Marshal Pierre said. Alabaster was surprised to hear him come forward in support of Leon – back before the battle with Yaravania, the fox had been the most outspoken of the marshals. 

Easier to talk down to him when he's not in the room, isn't it Pierre? 

The fox went on. “We will do as he says. Nobody here has more experience fighting Angels than he. First Director, if I could be so bold, I would suggest a strategy of precise and direct attack. An arrow to their heart, they will think us timid in fear of Leutgard's ability." 

“Yes," Leon said tersely. He didn't seem pleased at the idea of being stood up for. “I will lead the Ishim, and I want the focus of all other corps' to be opening up the enemy defence so we can get close. Leutgard must be dealt with swiftly, before she can lay too much damage down on our men."

Leon gave a quick look about the room, as if daring any of them to disagree. His eyes finished on Alabaster, pinning him down the way nails pin a frog for dissection. The dragon said nothing. 

“You once told me that all systems of power are inherently corrupt." Leon had asked him that the other day, during the battle. It had blindsided Alabaster, hitting him with all the subtlety of a hammer to the face. “Do you still believe that?"

It was the one question Alabaster had been avoiding, the one thing he couldn't bear to answer despite how often it rang in his ears. Leon's new Rennaire was built with good intentions, but it was not perfect, and Alabaster had seen cruelty come from good intentions before.

If he admitted yes, then he was betraying his faith in Rennaire's new system, and he was admitting that Leon was a corrupt ruler serving only himself. Yes would mean that he was an owner; no different to King Phillipe, no different to the men that put a blade in Alabaster's nine-year-old claw and told him kill or be killed.

And if Alabaster admitted no, then he was betraying himself. 

Either way he was turning his back on one of them. He wanted to laugh, or maybe to cry, or to scream from the sheer unending frustration of it all. How is it even a question? What happened to self preservation at all costs?

Alabaster wished he had never come to meet Leon Valoisier. He wondered, briefly, if the jaguar realised just how easily he could destroy him.

“Do you need to make preparations for the ritual, Alabaster?" Leon asked, oblivious to the internal strife coursing through the dragon. 

He shook his head, clearing the fog. “Some, but not many." 

“Then damn it man, have it done." Leon grinned wolfishly, and Alabaster hated how much it made his heart soar. “Tomorrow, we will kill another Angel." 

I made mountains, I shook the earth below. 

Flood… from the fountain, I carved my name in stone. 

And I stood, on the mountain, with nothing in the way. 

Feet, firm, on the mountain, with no voice to speak. 

The power that flowed through the dissolved components of Lazare Toussaint's body were volatile. Each time Alabaster reached forward to grasp it, to intermix his own sorcery with theirs, he felt himself on a tight-rope. Below stretched a cavernous depth, plummeting right through the earth and straight into hell. It was madness, it was fire, and one wrong step would incinerate himself along with anyone foolish enough to stay nearby. 

He continued the mantra of the dead tongues, the power of the first language stinging his throat. Blood hung in the air. Swaying in time with the chant's rhythm were thirteen naked men before him, Leon in their middle.  

“Ishim." That word was so old it made Alabaster's bones shake. He wondered if they could sense it – the coiling static on the edges of the room. It snapped and hissed like so many snakes, daring any to wrangle it and wriggling free when he tried. 

This was the kind of sorcery that had driven Alabaster's master insane. Fayez had glimpsed into the raw realm of other for only a moment, and it had driven him to gouging out his own eyes and smashing his head to pieces on the rocks. Whatever kind of magic came from the Angels, it was clear enough to Alabaster that it was far more raw than anything he worked with. What would a moment of true sight into that kind of realm be like? 

Hell. It would be hell. He knew it as surely as he knew the sky was blue. 

Claws trembling, he continued. The words thrummed with power, the bindings lashing themselves to himself and the new Ishim. His blood boiled, his teeth ached, his joints popped. It was agony, but this was what Leon needed, and so this was what Alabaster would do. 

I am the silence you deserve. The old mantra would not leave his mind as he worked, drawing rituals across the naked Ishim in the blood of Lazare. 

The ritual overtook them all. It was a vile litany, a beating heart of darkness inside them all. Alabaster could feel the violation that he was creating with them. Mixing the Angel magic with the other was akin to mixing oil and water. It should not be possible, it should not exist. 

And yet here I am. I will do what it takes. He drew the lines out with his bloodied fingertips. The path to my future is paved with death. Alabaster had been born a slave. The lowest of low, destined to fight and die for the entertainment of others. 

He had not. His entire existence was something that should not be. The Angels were another kind of nobility. They were people, born ordinary, cursed with the power and majesty of the One God's lineage – at least so said the Church. 

“They don't deserve that power," he whispered, the others taking up the chants. He stood before Leon, reached forward, and smeared the blood of Angels across his eyes. “They did nothing to earn it. Go forth, and take it from them." 

Wordless, the men picked themselves up and began to dress. The blood stayed with them, sealed into their fur with Alabaster's own threads. 

How little I truly understand. Sorcery was an ocean, one whose depths he could never hope to fully know. 

“Leon," he said, taking the jaguar by the arm and stepping aside. He tried not to stare as Leon raised his trousers up over his sheath, buckling his pants. He stood shirtless for a moment, muscular, bloodied from the ritual. “Be careful with Leutgard." 

“When am I not careful, Alabaster?" He shook his head, tugging on a shirt. “Please. The role of fretting wife doesn't suit you, let's not play it." 

Wife. The word did something to Alabaster, but he quickly shook himself free of that squirming grip. 

“Leutgard is not like Lazare or Hashan," he insisted. “Those two were dangerous but only by sheer force of what they were. Hashan saw few battles and none against his own kind, while Lazare got lazy eating Phillipe's food. Leutgard is a soldier, she is experienced in the killing of other Angels, and you are not even that." 

“I am well aware," Leon said sharply. His shirt buttons were all but done up, and he began to shrug on the great coat he wore. “But, as always, there is no other option." 

“Just do not be reckless, keep your own weaknesses in mind." 

Leon smiled pityingly. “That is where you and I are very different, Alabaster. You are a cynic, you work hard because you believe you will never be good enough. I know that I am. And I need to continue to believe that in order to do my job." 

This fucking man. Alabaster resisted the urge to stab him.

“You do have to kill Leutgard though, a stalemate isn't an option. Lazare's body is gone now, if she does not fall today, you will not have this power again. Understand that?"

Leon shook his head, reaching out and gently squeezing Alabaster's arm. His paw was warm and strong, and the dragon shuddered at how desperately he wanted to be touched. 

Pathetic. 

“You cannot put these kinds of doubts in me," Leon said seriously. “We will go out there, we will face Kiberland, and we will kill the forty-fifth. Smile, Alabaster, if we win this battle well enough we might travel back to Albedo yet." 

“I hope you're right." 

Again the jaguar grinned, whistling for the rest of his Ishim to gather themselves. “You should know by now, I am always right." 

Alabaster tried to smother his worry as they left to join the rest of the army. Like during all the other battles they had fought, there was nothing for Alabaster to do now but worry.

The fretting wife. 

Was that really how Leon saw him?

Drained of the majority of soldiers, Alabaster found himself again wandering the quiet halls, idly plucking the loose threads of his mind. The washerwomen and cooks shied away from him, flinching as he passed, some even spitting after he'd gone by.

Where does this end? He wondered, watching the soldiers march away into the dawn, drummer boys banging out the patterned tempo. When do our enemies relent? Did Leon seriously believe that Rennaire could take on the entire continent alone? Forever? 

We need an exit strategy. We need to figure out how our country can survive. 

Our country. Not their country. 

“Ours." The words came out in a whisper. Alabaster hadn't even realised he thought of Rennaire that way. Yet, as he searched himself, he realised it was true. Urdo had never been any kind of home, and under Phillipe's reign neither had Rennaire. But with Leon and his Triumvirate turning it away from the aristocratic avarice of before… 

Has he changed things for the better? Do you really think Leon is as corrupt as the old owners? 

All systems of power were inherently corrupt, and existed only to serve the ones in charge. Lesser, middling, greater – at the end of the day there was no difference between the cruel mistress running the Church orphanage, and the gluttonous King eating away his people's future. 

At least, that's what Alabaster had always believed. He stared down at his claws, unable to recognise himself. What do I believe now? Who am I anymore? 

Alabaster believed in study. In the scientific method of research and experimentation. What was happening in Rennaire had never before been attempted, and there was one great question that loomed at the very heart of everything that he grappled with.

If it was truly best for the country, for the people… would Leon relinquish his power? Phillipe's failure to do so had poisoned his future. 

And the natural follow-up, Alabaster's own choice to make; 

If it came to that, do I even think he should? What is best for them, may not be best for us. Does that make me an owner too? Self-awareness was not enough to spare him that judgement. 

Paralysed. There was no other way to describe how he felt now. The questions could not be answered before they happened, and confliction broiled within him like a forgotten pot. He hated Leon, and he loved him. He despised power, and yet he served it. He was a committed cynic, and he was hoping for the best.

You're going around in circles. Do you think Leon ever wonders about these sorts of questions? No. He acts. He does something, rather than simply sitting about and whining over it. But what could Alabaster even do? He wasn't a soldier. He'd given Leon the Ishim ritual, and despite his suggestions the jaguar had never desired to see undead soldiers raised for his army. 

The prisoners. Alabaster realised he had forgotten them. Leon and his soldiers had already marched out to meet Kiberland's forces, but he'd never figured out exactly where they were being held. 

Pierre and Laurent said they'd be released after the battle. So they must be here somewhere. Alabaster once again closed the door on his unanswerable questions, preferring to crush them inside himself rather than confronting it. 

It took some searching before he found someone who had been around during the initial taking of the fort. The soldiers had naturally moved in first after the garrisoned force surrendered, with the baggage train and support members coming later. Most soldiers were gone now, off to fight Kiberland. However, inside the infirmary, Alabaster found two with minor wounds that Marshal Laurent had chosen to leave behind. After some persuasion, they admitted the prisoners had been moved underground into the cellars, and that there were food stores down there as well as a sunken well for water. 

Alabaster was nearly ready to give up by the time he found the stairwell. It was a narrow spiral twisting into the ground, and he winced imagining a whole fort's worth of men being shoved down it. The feeling that it didn't quite add up dogged at him.

Leon was too busy to be dealing with trivial matters, Alabaster doubted he'd given the matter any thought. He's normally such a micromanager… this war is getting too large, it is slipping away from him. He needed people he could trust. Laurent and Pierre were good men, but Alabaster knew Leon wasn't as close with them as he was with Deuxmoise. But the old jackal was too useful, he had been given his own army and sent east to fight Danegard.

But except for me, and Jacques… who here can Leon completely trust? 

It was a worrying thought, but Alabaster wasn't yet convinced it meant anything. Grand politics, especially during wartime, were not his strong suit. For all the years he spent in Phillipe's court, Alabaster's one and only concern had always been about protecting himself and nothing more. The sudden influx that came from caring about not only Leon's position, but also the government as a whole, was staggering in its intensity. The whole thing felt… messy. A maze, without an end.

The door into the cellars was locked, unsurprisingly. Frowning, Alabaster quickly tugged at the threads of other around it, dissolving the iron and letting the heavy door swing inwards. 

He was greeted by silent darkness. If torches had been placed in the cavernous hall they had long burned out. There was a sense of depth to the room, that much he could feel, waiting for his eyes to adjust as the cool, stale air washed out over him. 

Silence. Alabaster had never known a prison to be a quiet place, let alone one filled to the brim with enemy soldiers. As foreboding festered in his chest, he crept forward, trying to blink through the gloom. He made several echoing steps before his boot hit something soft and heavy. 

He closed his eyes, sighing as he whispered an old incantation. When he opened them, the room was revealed to him, the previously heavy shadows now suddenly translucent.

Alabaster felt no surprise as he stared at the piles of dead bodies. They were thrown like cargo, with no care placed at all to their arrangement or orientation. Most of them had had their throats slit – bladed weapons, quiet weapons. Pockets were turned, and eyes were glazed over. This act of mass murder was so dispassionate in its violence it reminded Alabaster of his own work. 

But why? He wondered, gliding past the corpses. Why kill them? To what end? He guessed there were less than two hundred bodies; barely enough to defend Fort Endo against a strong breeze, let alone any real enemy. That also meant they hadn't been killed to prevent them from bolstering an enemy army, two hundred was almost nothing in the grand scheme of strategy.

Alabaster stopped. He felt… odd. Unlike himself. This does not matter. They're just dead men. You've seen scores of dead men, made plenty yourself. Yet he felt… something. Deep inside, a tiny kindle, a whispering flame that flickered as meekly as a single candle in a tomb. He knew the feeling, and wanted to reject it. 

Outrage. How could he be outraged? How many injustices had he closed himself off to over his life? The knife-pits, the starvation in Albedo, the wholesale slaughter of so many noblemen and aristocrats during the revolution… and yet… this was what felt wrong to him? The audacity of his own emotions enraged him, and before he realised it Alabaster had grabbed one of the corpses by the ankles and dragged it from the pile. It flopped stiffly, it had been dead a few days now, but the coolness of the cellar had kept the worst of the decomposition from setting in. 

“Show me your brain, I would have its secrets," he whispered, wrapping both claws around the corpse's skull. He squeezed and felt soft bone, shaking the head gently. The internals felt solid – liquefaction hadn't stolen too much. “We must work fast, something is amiss." 

Above ground, the fighting started. He heard it despite the layers of rock and stone between them, the choir of war. The thudding of artillery, the repetitive volleys of muskets. The battle has already begun, if these men were killed to further an end that chance has passed. 

“Wake," Alabaster insisted. His work was sloppy, hastily carving eldritch runes into the corpse, a spare piece of chalk outlining concentric circles of power around it. He would have only a few moments, a brief spark of understanding before the body re-expired. That was all he needed, he had to know. “Who are you?" He tugged at the collar, checking the embossed pattern there. He was unfamiliar with the Yaravanian system, but he noticed several crisscrossed yellow and red lines stitched into the fabric. The other soldiers had simpler emblems, and he guessed that meant this man had held some kind of rank. 

Foul gases bubbled up as he slit the belly, the bloated flesh sagging as he gagged. Spitting away the acrid taste, Alabaster slid his claw inside. The old threads of other that had once bound the pieces of this body to life were faint, but worming his fingers through the rotting guts he found them, tangling his claw within them and tugging hard. 

The corpse arched its back, limbs and head jerking erratically. The eyes had turned to goo, but a choking splutter coughed from his dead tongue. 

“Bliiiind… Bliiiinnd…. I cannot seeeeee…." The corpse rasped, the sound like that of sandpaper dragged over a stone. The Yaravanian language was familiar, yet unusual. It loaned enough from the Rennairan tongue that Alabaster could understand the meaning, though it took him a moment to decipher some of them. 

“You are dead, thrall, and now you are mine." Alabaster crushed his claw and the body shuddered, responding to the sharp treatment. It was inelegant, but the more time passed the more Alabaster felt the urgency knocking at him. There was a bad feeling in the marrow of his spine. Every round of cannon that fired above ground seemed to push him closer to whatever he was sure was coming. 

“Whyyyy have you donnnne… thiiissss…" The corpse twisted and convulsed. 

“Stop that," Alabaster jerked it still. “It is to satiate my own fears. You speak. You will answer, and I will let you go." The corpse was soulless now, it had no choice but to obey him, but he knew from experience that while not outrightly defying, they could be difficult if they chose to.

“Who killed you?" 

“We…. we…." The corpse rattled on the stones. “We were to give… the fort… the fort was to be given." 

“Given? To whom? To us?" 

“Rennaire… the… countenance…"

Countenance? No, Alabaster realised, that wasn't what that word meant. He means rival. Enemy. 

“You had to give it to Rennaire? Yes, you surrendered." 

“No… no… command… command was to deliver unto the rival. Give the fort. The rest left. The rest of them left." 

“The rest…" Of the garrison? No wonder it seemed so small, no wonder it seemed that Yaravania had seemingly all but forgotten about the nearest fort to the enemy they were at war with. They hadn't half-staffed it, it was a tactical retreat… but to what end? 

“Why would they abandon this post? Why leave you here?"

“I…." The corpse began to slump. 

“No, answer me!" Alabaster snarled, shaking the body. Again overhead, more cannons fired. Worry wormed into his mind as he wondered if Kiberland was copping the worst of it yet, or if Leon had encountered Leutgard. He pushed it from his mind, this interrogation was far more pressing. “Why did they leave you here if they were abandoning the fort?" 

“To make it…" The corpse seemed to dry out, the words becoming thin. “To… make… it… appearance." 

“Appearance?" 

No… No, once again, Alabaster had misconstrued the word. Not appearance. 

“Convincing." 

The corpse croaked a single, scathing laugh. “Your. Men. Killed. Us."

“So you wouldn't speak of the deal. But that was never the agreement, was it? You were betrayed?" Alabaster's heart was racing as he tried to piece it all together. 

“Yessss… You… could not know…" The corpse raised its head off the ground with tremendous effort, staring at him with eyeless sockets. 

“This fort. Is a trap." 

Alabaster felt the energy drain from the body, and it collapsed into a pile of bones wrapped with flesh. A trap? How? His mind raced, how would allowing Leon to take this fort give the coalition the upper paw in the war? Leon's army wasn't even in Fort Endo, he'd said they were strongest on their feet, utilising swift movement.

Unless the coalition knew that. They know he is aggressive. And they knew he couldn't resist trying to take them by surprise, as far as Leon believes… they'd expect him to hunker down in the fort. 

Leon's men had taken to calling him 'The Gambler'. It was a nickname, born out of the Director-General's consistent high-risk high-reward approach to the battles. 

But this time Leon gambled too much. He was so fucking arrogant it made Alabaster's cold blood boil. Why couldn't he just wait? Now they'd spent Lazare's body and he might not even… 

Realisation slipped into his heart like a knife. 

He felt it then. He'd felt it all along, but until that moment hadn't placed what it was. That different kind of magic, not the other, but whatever it was those fucking monsters they called Angels used. 

Alabaster looked up, he saw ice puncturing through the ceiling. Now he heard screams, gunshots. Not distant. Close. Here. 

Leon had undertaken the Ishim ritual, he had gone out to the battlefield himself to kill Leutgard and cripple the Kiberlandsmen. 

But the forty-fifth wasn't on the battlefield. 

She was here.