NONE SO VILE

16: A New Kind of War

Albedo, Rennaire, 1802.

Leon stood stalwart on the balcony, paws clasped behind his back as he stared down into the street below. The sound of the crowd was deafening, songs overlapping songs, cheers overlapping cheers, all of them waving flags and raising their arms. Men, women, and children of Rennaire shoved shoulder-to-shoulder, cramming themselves painfully tight into the main street in an effort to get a look at Leon's justice.

They were as patchwork as an overworn jacket. Some were dressed in their Church-best outfits, while some looked as if they'd just crawled out of bed and brought the blankets with them. People of all species, colours, and creeds joined together in the winter frost to celebrate their newly-won freedom.

The cold cut through the air like a knife, stinging cheeks and drying eyes, flushing colour to the cheeks of all – yet none of the people seemed to mind. Rain, hail, sun, or storm, Leon knew they wouldn't dream of missing this moment.

And they cheered. They cheered Leon's name, and hailed the Triumvirate, and declared death to all monarchs past and present. Clumps of pigment were hurled into the air by jubilant children, bursting into clouds of purple, yellow, and blue.

Leon's paw traced over the Rennairan coat-of-arms embroidered on his sleeve, feeling the shape of the unicorn as his chest swelled with pride. This was why he did it, why he risked everything. For freedom. For liberty, equality, and fraternity. For Rennaire.

But Rennaire had grown like a rose throttled by weeds, and before the flowers could flourish, Leon had to rip them out so thoroughly they could never return.

The guillotine stage stood tall before the palace gates, revolutionary soldiers braced around it like a wall of iron. Stretched out along the palace fences was a long line of prisoners, manacled and docile, their heads hung in shame as they silently awaited the guillotine. There were dozens of them, men and women both, most former nobles, but not all. Treason was the tie that bound them to one another, and Leon would have each one die so Rennaire could live. It was bloody and terrible, but necessary. He had to show that the new Triumvirate would not stand for rebellion, especially in the days to come.

“You should go inside," he said, looking across. His sister Cosette stood swaying by him in the chill air. The baby jaguar Émeric was cradled in her arms, his tiny flat halo bobbing in time with her movements, soft coos bubbling up from his swaddle. “This will not be pretty."

“These people would have taken my son away, Leon." Cosette's expression was hard, her gaze locked on the guillotine below. “He never did anything wrong, and yet they'd make him their sword, and we'd never have seen him again." She sniffed. “They deserve every cruelty and more."

“As you say," he replied, surprised by the venom in her tone.

The crowd stirred as one as a large black carriage rounded the corner at the end of the street. It passed like a rickety shadow in front of the condemned prisoners, and many of them looked up in hope as it bounced along the cobbles enroute to the guillotine. The crowd jeered, redoubling their efforts of hurling rotten fruit and vegetables, aiming for the carriage but settling for the former nobles where they could. The city was like a raw wound, and Leon had no doubt that if he pulled his soldiers back the mob would giddily rip every one of those former nobles to pieces without a second thought. Never before had he seen such a mixture of simultaneous joy and wrath.

Leon stiffened as the carriage slowed to a halt by the guillotine's edge. The doors fell open and Jules de Rennaire was pulled out. The former prince did not resist, fiercely keeping his chin raised as Deuxmoise's men shoved him up the stairs and out onto the execution platform.

Nobody else knew the full gravity of this decision. Oh, most guessed that the other monarchs would not take kindly to it, but they had not the certainty that Leon did. He had burned the letters they sent, but the words were seared into his mind. Six nations formed into a single coalition, all jointly sworn to declare war on Rennaire the moment Prince Jules's head fell from his shoulders. If he told anyone else, they might have stopped him.

There is no other way. This is the path to freedom, the only path to freedom. If Jules was allowed to live, he would always have a claim on that throne. Leon knew it was the right choice, his only choice. But that does not make it easy.

The weight of it pressed on him. It stabbed behind his eyes, pounding in his ears and churning his guts. Most of all he despised how important it made Jules, even at the end of his life. This single death would plunge Rennaire into a war like no other in living memory. It was the nail in the coffin of the old ways, and whatever result came of fighting this newly formed coalition, Leon knew that Midland would never be the same.

For his part, Jules stood tall behind the guillotine stocks, facing the furious crowd with pride. A crier listed out his numerous crimes, and as he spoke the badger raised both arms high into the air, paws curled into fists.

“Such a pathetic show of face," Deuxmoise said, joining Leon at the balcony. The old jackal puffed on a pipe, blowing smoke into the air. “Does he think anyone will remember him? Does he think that it matters?"

“At least he dies with pride," Leon replied. “That's more than can be said for his father." The people had been robbed of executing King Phillipe, and so once more Jules stood for them in his step-father's place. In that twenty-seven year old badger they saw every injustice and cruelty ever done to them by the nobility; every starving child, every dead son.

“And what of the true heir?" Deuxmoise asked quietly. “There has been no word of Gabriel since the battle in the markets."

Leon sighed. Since their argument a few days ago, he had barely spoken with Alabaster. Every time he had tried to force the dragon to reveal the boy's fate, and every time he had been rebuked. It made him so angry to even consider it that the hackles on his neck rose up, fists shaking by his side.

Surely he wouldn't be stupid enough to let the child live. Alabaster of all people should know the value of ruthlessness. They'd been so close, that was the worst part. Leon had felt so utterly understood on that bed, giving up his body and mind to Alabaster in a frenzied moment of passion, he'd even begun to delude himself into thinking they could be lovers. Should have known better.

“Then Citizen Alabaster still refuses to explain himself?" Deuxmoise guessed.

“Indeed."

“He is not like us, Director," the jackal added, cautiously. “Those people are cold-blooded. They are born in eggs and built for the heat of the desert. He has never really assimilated to the Rennairan way of life, perhaps–"

“General, hold your tongue," Leon snapped. “It is only thanks to Alabaster that Jules stands trial now, I won't hear a bad word about him." Alabaster may be the most annoying, frustrating man on the planet, but if anyone would be insulting him, it would be Leon alone.

“Pardon me, Director. I forget myself."

The crier on stage continued to list crimes committed by the royal family. His words were drowned by the crowd, they did not care for procedure – the people had come for blood.

Leon turned to Deuxmoise. “We need to speak, General. About the future. Things are about to change very soon, and very quickly, we must be ready if we want Rennaire to survive what comes."

Deuxmoise gave a nervous chuckle around his scrimshaw pipe. “You make it sound like the end of the world, Director."

“It may very well be." Leon cleared his throat. “I would like you to begin plans for mass conscription. We are going to need soldiers, far more soldiers than are likely to have ever been recruited to our armies at once before. I would have you promote strong men to good leaders, regardless of their birth, see to it that they take pride in their new positions. Even if they are young, if they are loyal and experienced, bring them forward. I have ordered Jacques to have these printed up and put around the city." Leon pulled a mock flyer from a pocket, proffering for the jackal to read.

Deuxmoise snorted, holding it from his face to read. His eyebrows betrayed what he thought of the flyer's contents. It was a message to all citizens, declaring that the future of Rennaire was under threat, and urging them to sign up willingly to the army. “You think we're likely to have that many volunteers signing up? And as enlisted men no less?" The jackal scoffed out a short laugh.

Leon was not laughing. “I see a new kind of army dominating the fields of future war, Deuxmoise. Like every other bloody Midland army, half our enlisted men have been tricked into serving and then beaten into submission. They were desperate, or half-kidnapped, or former criminals trying to avoid gaol. Officers are somewhat respected but the enlisted men who fight and die for us are considered scum by most ordinary folk. I'd have that changed. Never before has a soldier received as much admiration as my new soldiers shall. I will find the funds and ensure their weapons and uniforms are provided for them, and then I will pay them well. I will make soldiering a respected career choice, fighting for the glory and freedom of our home, instead of some pathetic king's avarice."

“God in his heaven," Deuxmoise said, shaking his head. “You're serious. You truly think people would ever want to fight in the army?"

“Imagine it!" Leon hissed, leaning in excitedly. “Imagine how unstoppable a force of willing and eager soldiers would be! And we will need it, hear me now, we will need numbers to weather the storm that comes."

“It is winter, Director," Deuxmoise said softly, as if calming down a child. On the guillotine stage below, Jules was being led around to the back of the device. Deuxmoise ignored it, his full attention now on Leon. “There is no storm of war coming soon. We have time."

“You'll think winter far too short when it ends. We have those months to prepare, maybe less."

Deuxmoise narrowed his eyes. “Prepare… for what? Do you know something I am not privy to, Director? There is a certainty to you I find unsettling."

Leon only stared back.

Finally, the old jackal sighed deeply. “Very well, I trusted you this far. I will begin promoting, and will see to it that the army is ready to receive a sudden influx of… eager volunteer soldiers." He shook his head, as if the notion was so ridiculous he could hardly picture it.

“A new kind of war is coming, my friend," Leon said, reclasping his paws behind his back as he watched the guillotine keenly. “And in order to face it, I will create a new kind of army."

On the stage below, Jules was finally shoved to his knees. The people were positively foaming at the mouth as the stocks closed around his neck. The executioner slid the latch shut, stepping to the back of the guillotine. Leon's stomach tightened, heart quickening.

This is it. The revolution has only just begun, even if I'm the only one who knows it.

The executioner pulled on his lever and the blade was released. With a shocking smoothness the razor-sharp steel fell. It sliced cleanly through the prince's neck with one swift thuck. Jules's eyes bulged, and a heartbeat later his head tipped forward. Blood spurted out comically, gushing from both sides of the wound. His severed head fell forward, hitting the platform wood and rolling forwards, toppling over the edge and disappearing into the shadowed darkness of the cobblestones below. Leon wanted to burst out with laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

“We must get a basket for that," Deuxmoise muttered. “Keeps happening."

The red deluge flowed freely from the stump of Jules's neck, soaking the wood and dripping down the front of the stage. The masses screamed with exultation, punching into the air, bellowing for more. As the blood flowed, so did Leon's anxiety. It was done now, and there would be no turning back.

The executioner undid the stocks and pulled Jules's headless, twitching body from it, beckoning the next prisoner to be brought forward. The entire thing took less than ten minutes, it was efficient and without malice. As justice should be.

“So it begins," Leon said, turning away.

Barendo, Yaravania, 1804.

Fifteen Months Later.

The map screamed at Leon. His eyes were tired from staring at it so intensely, and every time he closed them the inked rivers and roads started swimming in the dark of his lids. The pieces almost seemed to be mocking him, as if they somehow knew the problem he faced was unsolvable. Each time he found a way to close the net, another hole opened.

They were only a few days' march from the coast, and the early spring wind bit at him, tiny sacks of gunpowder pushed to the map's corners to keep the scroll from blowing away. The wooded gully that the army had chosen to camp in was well-defended, their tents nestled into the rocky hills and hidden by the dense pine foliage. Leon had his command tent at the far rear, atop the rise – it was tactically sound, offering good visibility all around and natural defences. Unfortunately, the Yaravanian hills were notorious for their biting chills, the sculpted valleys forming natural wind tunnels that carried the salty sea air deep into the mainland.

I have to make a decision. They'd already been camped there for days as he tried to think of a way forward, and now time had run out. Pick something. At times like this, doing anything is better than nothing.

He spun a dagger between his paws, turning it around again and again in his dexterous fingers, hoping the rhythm would jog his mind.

“Er, excuse me… director?" Leon blinked at the map and his pieces, glancing up to see Jacques staring at him worriedly.

“What?" Leon snapped, annoyed at having his train of thought broken.

“Your paw, sir," Jacques said, pointing. Leon glanced down and saw red smeared over his palm, a sharp sting of pain suddenly shooting into his thumb.

“Damn it!" Leon dropped the dagger, shaking out his bleeding paw.

“Here, allow me." The rat took his arm without pause, proffering a roll of bandages like a magician revealing a coin. He swiftly wrapped Leon's new wound. “I came to tell you the marshals are complaining. They wonder why we haven't left for Fort Endo yet."

“I am well aware of what the marshals think," Leon replied testily, staring back at the map as Jacques finished wrapping his paw. “They make no secret of their opinions."

Leon's army had roughly 85,000 men, including the baggage train and servants. The last six months of fighting had been to them what a whetstone was to a blade, and now they had experience, combined with something even more valuable – pride. No longer did Rennaire employ the old ways of recruitment; trickery, bullying, and brutality. Leon would not beat his men into obedience as Danegard did. His soldiers fought because they wanted to, because they knew they were the only thing standing between the enemy and their families. Rennaire simply wanted it more, and her enemies were beginning to feel just how powerful a force that could be.

85,000. A large force. What had Deuxmoise said, back at Zolfreun? It is simple arithmetic. Leon peeled back his anxieties, breaking down the numbers.

There were three separate armies in Barendo; Leon's own, Yaravania, and Kiberland. Leon's was the largest individually, but if the Yaravanian 68,000 were allowed to connect with Kiberland's 40,000, they would easily outnumber Leon's force.

The armies were positioned in a triangle. Fort Endo stood in the centre of them all, a mostly-forgotten Yaravanian outpost with a negligible force of men garrisoned there.

Leon's army was two days' travel from Fort Endo.

Yaravania was three.

Kiberland was four.

The marshals thought Leon should take the fort immediately, and use its defences to withstand the combined might of Yaravania and Kiberland.

But then we risk being pinched in the middle, left fighting a battle on two fronts. It would also allow the two enemy forces to meet up and organise themselves strategically.

He could retreat and circle around. But then the two armies connect, grow stronger, and chase us away.

He could attack one of them. And have the other waiting to pounce.

“Where are the scout reports?" Leon snapped, turning around in place until a clerk passed them to him. “Damn it to hell," he muttered, reading the report. The scouting parties believed, but had not confirmed yet, that Kiberland also had an Angel attached to their 40,000.

“The marshals want walls," Jacques repeated.

“And people in hell want ice water," Leon hissed. “Do they not see how Fort Endo will trap us? What good will walls be if the Kiberlandsmen do have an Angel? Speed is our ally, yet we would make Fort Endo our coffin."

He pinched his eyes, sighing. When he opened them, he tried to examine the map from another angle. He saw the terrain as if he floated above it. The thick, rocky forests were a sniper's nightmare. But it could also act as a cloak for his own men.

Kiberland were further away, they had left the comfort of their island, they did not have good intel.

Yaravania did, but their rear was protected by the Mimrac River, which ran through the valley and up towards the fort. They were closer, but flanking would be useless.

He wished General Deuxmoise was with him, but the jackal was leading their other army out to fight in the east. He was busy gunning down Danegard and Losaile, for the second time in as many years.

This war was vicious, but Leon still knew he could win it. He had to. After taking Jules's head, Rennaire had thrown every resource they had into the army. They'd spent the winter training, running drills, and recruiting like never before. Citizens donated what little money they had to help clothe and feed the soldiers, it was a movement of unity like nothing Leon had ever seen. I must make it count. Their sacrifice, their trust in me. If we lose to the coalition we will not just cede meaningless territory, we will lose our way of life so soon after earning it.

“So this is what you spend every hour of the day doing." Leon sighed as he turned and saw Alabaster approaching. The dragon made no secret of how much he despised travelling in the 'uncultured wilds', but Leon needed him close, ready to perform the Ishim rituals in case of an Angel appearance. They'd gotten lucky thus far, but as the Coalition ran out of patience, so too would they run out of hesitation. “The marshals say we have run out of time, they're talking about retreat. Time to cut our losses, Director-General?"

“Cut our losses?" Leon snapped back. He had grown tired of Alabaster's constant jabs six months ago. “Do you know how to do anything but run away and hide?"

“Retreat is not always so bad," Alabaster countered. “Does a viper not pull back before it strikes?"

“Do not try to lecture me about tactics," Leon said icily. “I do not come and tell you how best to defile corpses."

The dragon drew closer, narrowing his eyes at the map. “Then explain it to me."

Leon searched his voice for any hint of sarcasm, but for once, the necromancer actually seemed genuine. So he turned, pointing out the pieces that represented the three armies. “So far, we are holding our own against the coalition better than anyone hoped, I do not need to tell you that six-on-one is poor odds. Tar and Cielwen's pathetic surrenders were welcome boons, they were never serious about a full invasion. But Danegard and Losaile, Yaravania and Kiberland, these are not trifling alliances. It wasn't so long ago that Yaravania and Kiberland were at war, for them to put aside those old wounds to fight us? It bodes ill. But we've held the line, won more than we've lost, at least for now.

“Alabaster, if we allow them to find the smallest crack in our defence their leaders will seize upon it, and burst through to slaughter us all."

“But we have the numbers, no? Why not fall back and reinforce?"

Leon felt stupid for explaining it, but Alabaster was not a soldier, so he tried to be patient. “It isn't just about numbers. It is about morale. So far we carry the momentum, if we lose that then Kiberland and Yaravania will overrun us." He leaned forward, gesturing towards the northern edge of the map. “Barendo is near the coast. If we become entrenched in a protracted fight with Kiberland, their superior naval capabilities will mean they can resupply faster than I can. We will not survive a battle of attrition."

Alabaster stared gravely at the map, and Leon tore himself away. He needed a clear head, and the dragon's presence did not help with that.

“Why did you come, Alabaster?"

The mystic feigned surprise, rather poorly. “Do I need a reason? Are you so important these days?"

Leon bit back a sigh. “We've spent months out on campaign and you've never once shown an interest in tactics. What changed? And don't tell me it's a random spur of interest, I know you too well to be fooled by that."

“Perhaps I'm bored?" Alabaster stared for a moment, and seeing Leon wouldn't accept that, shrugged. “I listen to talk. The marshals are souring on you, Leon. We've been stagnant for days with no explanation, and all the while our enemies move closer."

“Worried about them badmouthing me? I can protect myself against some uppity midrank officers, thank you."

“Yes, you're such a big boy, aren't you?" Alabaster snapped, shaking his head.

The air between them was tense. Since that fateful day in Leon's bedroom, they had not touched one another or even discussed the possibility of doing so. Alabaster had flat-out refused to ever confess what he'd done with Gabriel, and Leon had not been able to get past that. He needed the dragon to fight the Angels, but damn it all if he wished he didn't.

Faintly, Leon adjusted the crotch of his trousers. He hadn't fucked anything since that day in the palace, and the tension of it was driving him insane. Jacques was obviously around, and would probably acquiesce in the name of 'campaign relief' but… it wasn't the rat Leon wanted anymore. You just had to be a bastard, didn't you?

“They are terrified of you, you know."

Leon paused, glancing back at the dragon. He stood there, firm and white, like a statue draped in cloth. Memories assailed him; the smoothness of Alabaster's scales, the sharp pointed ends of his claws, the strength in his hips. Chest tightening, he fought to keep his eyes from wandering over the dragon's body. Part of him yearned to give over control to the mystic once more, to feel him crawling around in his head as he used him. The rest of him had too much pride to go crawling back.

“What do you mean? Who's terrified?"

Alabaster shrugged, bending down and picking up the dagger Leon had pricked himself with earlier. He turned it over, the bloodied steel catching in the light. “As we passed over battlefields, I communed with the enemy dead. They speak of a command paralysed by your myth, of soldiers who tell stories of you around the campfire, as if you were a ghost haunting them. Their captains cannot make a decision, always they fret about falling into your traps. Everyone remembers Zolfreun. And Albray, and Halderengo too. The dead claim that even when their generals do catch you in a mistake, they are too frightened to leverage it, assuming you meant it as a trap."

“Do I look like I need reassurance to you, Alabaster?" Leon asked.

For his part, Alabaster smirked, approaching slowly. He stopped a few inches from Leon, waiting. The jaguar inhaled, and caught the scent of incense and spice that so often hung around the mystic. It was intoxicating, and instantly made him stiffen in his trousers. Leon wanted so badly to reach out and touch him, but he forced himself to remain still.

“You are winning this war," Alabaster said quietly. “Commit fully to victory. They fear you, make sure that doesn't change."

This time Leon bit back the snarky reply waiting on his tongue, glancing back to the map. It was as if he saw it with new eyes. Aggression, speed, and fear. Those were Rennaire's biggest advantages, and he had to use them.

“The river." His mind returned to the thought, and he placed a finger on the line representing the Mirmac. “Fort Endo is a waste of time, in the end it will only become a hindrance. Our men are faster and better. Jacques!"

The rat hurried forward, a ledger raised in his arms. “Yes, General-Director?"

“Get word to the marshals. First light tomorrow, no… two hours before first light, we march. Tell them to prepare, and to attend my command tent at sundown for a proper briefing." Jacques nodded swiftly, whirling in place and hurrying off to convey the message.

“You have a plan then," Alabaster added. “Finally."

“Shut up already."

Things moved faster after that, and Leon began to feel as if he were commanding it all himself. Four sets of light infantry were sent towards the Kiberland army. They had instructions to harass without engaging, to circle around the enemy and create more noise than damage. Kiberland were in a foreign land, they had bad intel, and the smaller force. Leon had to press on their insecurity, convince their scouts that Rennaire had even more than seemed possible.

“We must slow them down however we can," he told the marshals. “Kiberland cannot be allowed to reinforce Yaravania, their combined force will overwhelm us. Our light infantry will harry them. Tomorrow, as dawn begins to break, I will make the Mimrac River into my anvil, and we will smash Yaravania upon it."

The marshals seemed unsure of the plan. It was bold and dangerous, very high risk compared to taking Fort Endo. Leon dismissed their worries and their presence, returning to his command tent to sleep.

Dawn came cold and foggy. Leon ordered all the cavalry to dismount, knowing the horses would only break their ankles in the hilly forest. Instead he condensed his force into a wedge-tipped column, punching them like an arrow through the rocky forest dips and bogs.

The first snag was Yaravania's exceptional scouts. They knew the terrain of their home country well, and they spotted Leon's men well before the armies were in sight of one another.

“Press on," Leon told Jacques, who then told the runners, who then told the marshals.

Yaravania managed to rouse itself in the hour it took Leon's force to reach them. The enemy had chosen to march along a softer depression in the land, avoiding the forested hills. The footing there was uneven and soft, but the trees were more open. The Yaravanians probably thought it gave them better lines of sight, but all Leon saw was an army that had exposed itself for the killing.

His cannon opened fire on the middle of the enemy line. Watchmen and commanders screamed to get their men into order, but Leon's grapeshot was chaos incarnate. It shredded through the Yaravanian forces, and as their defence crumbled his infantry charged with bayonets fixed.

That soft wet grass was quickly churned to mud, and Leon grinned as he watched the Yaravanian cavalry quickly bog itself down in the muck. His own men moved lighter, skipping over the forming swamp, dashing closer in staggered bursts. One rank would sprint forward and drop into a crouched row. As they fired their muskets into the Yaravanians, the next tier of Leon's men would go sprinting by and repeat the action.

It was a far cry from the traditional battlefield approach of Leon's military books, but it was working, and that was all that mattered. The enemy artillery tried firing into the hills, but it was mostly in vain as the trees worked to obscure Leon's full force. Instead they took random pot-shots, hoping to hit something vital as their cannonballs turned pine trees and boulders into splinters and rocks.

The tip of his wedge split the Yaravanian ranks like a cleaver splitting meat. Starting to panic, the enemy soldiers began trying to retreat, their dread only increasing as they realised the Mirmac River was cutting them off. Through his spyglass, Leon saw the clear shallows turning red, bodies floating away as they fell back into the water.

A spotter's voice pierced the air, echoed through Leon's ranks as the others repeated the call. “CAVALRY! CAVALRY FROM THE EAST!"

Panic gripped him as Yaravanian cavalry managed to find their footing, threading the needle across the sodden ground and charging towards the thick of the fight. The horses came galloping up the valley, flowing from the rear of the Yaravanian forces, carbines raised and ready. Thankfully Leon's men were well-trained and ready for the attack. They quickly abandoned the bayonet fighting, pulling back to form up into tight squares to fend off the horse attacks. The first carbine shot did damage as expected, but the cavalry had a harder time as they drew their long, heavy sabres. Leon swelled with pride as his men held their ground.

Cavalry were helpless against a proper infantry square, and as the horsemen continued to ride laps about Leon's soldiers, searching for an in-point, they found themselves unwittingly caught up in the mud. They were an experienced force, and although they managed to keep themselves upright, Leon saw how quickly they all tired from the effort.

“Artillery!" Leon demanded, pointing forwards for effect. It took a minute for the message to be delivered down through the ranks, but when it was they all heard it loud and clear. Howitzers fired onto the field and the exhausted cavalry were blown to pieces. Those unreached by the cannon were swiftly gunned down by the musketmen seizing their confusion.

The day dragged on, the sun rising to clear the fog and sweating the men. Leon's men continued with their push, splitting the enemy army in two. They teetered on the cusp of breaking, split down the middle, trapped between the river and the rest of Leon's forces. There was nowhere to run.

“Make the final push," he ordered an hour past noon. “I want them driven into the Mirmac, I want this army shattered so it takes them a year to pick up the pieces!"

“The marshals are concerned with over-commitment," Jacques explained. “They say that if Yaravania has reserves, or if Kiberland manage to get support teams here in time, then we will be exposed."

Leon paused, it was a valid concern. If he was in charge of the Yaravanian army, he would fake weakness as well. Draw the enemy in, make them overconfident, and then stab them in the back.

But I am not in charge of their army. There was only one of him. And he was winning.

“This is all they've got," he told Jacques. “Tell the marshals I want a full-commitment attack. Target their weakest points and fold inwards, scatter them."

“Yes, Director."

It took nearly the rest of the day. Leon sat on tenterhooks the entire time, picking at the gash in his palm, watching the tiny dots of his men fighting and dying on the grasslands. The further out his army swung, the more worried Leon became that Yaravania would suddenly reveal a hidden blade at the last minute. Several times they managed to mount another cavalry charge, but each time it was only a single wave.

The two armies parried and dodged, riposting one another and rebuffing, swelling for pushes and firing with abandon. They both fought hard, it was undeniable. Glancing to the north-west, Leon wished he could somehow have word of his light infantry harassing the Kiberland forces. If they somehow managed to get a force through now, Leon's own army was in too deep with the Yaravania skirmish to properly respond.

“Come on now, finish it already," he growled through gritted teeth. His entire body was firm, muscles locked up. He was a ball of stress and anxiety, flinching every time a new volley of cannon fire echoed up the valley.

This is a hard fight, and in two days time we'll be in the shit again with Kiberland. And when that happened they would have to face down an Angel along with them. Kiberland's military was nothing to sniff at; it might be smaller, but Leon knew they probably had the best soldiers after Rennaire, certainly rivalling Danegard's incredible Kammerjaeger.

“That is why we must take victory now," Leon insisted, to a small crowd of disagreeing marshals. “We can't let the boot off their neck until we are certain they cannot get up again!"

“We are seeing scattered white flags!" Marshal Pierre said.

Marshal Laurent shook his head. “Their army is fractured, it seems only a quarter is trying to surrender, the rest keep shooting back."

Leon growled. “We accept surrender only from their general, nobody else. Run them into the Mirmac if we have to. Jacques, who is in command of the Yaravanian force?" He snapped his fingers, and the rat hurried to dig through reports.

“General Atif, sir!"

“Very good. The only way General Atif does not surrender to me, is if he is already dead. "

“Marshal Pierre," Leon said, turning to the fox. “Give your men the spurs. I want them sent into the fray, hold nothing back."

“You're mad," Pierre said, shaking his head. “Give it time, Director, we will have the day soon enough."

“And yet I want it now," Leon replied, his words cutting Pierre down. “It is already creeping into dusk, if we lose the light and abandon the fight it will allow General Atif to regroup and retreat. He will come back when we are knee-deep in the Kiberlandsmen." Pierre opened his mouth to argue again, and Leon stepped up close to him, lowering his voice so what he said was only for them. “And I would be very cautious of the words you choose to use, Marshal. What fool would publicly declare the Triumvirate of Rennaire mad? I'd hate to lose a competent soldier like yourself due to a charge of treason."

Marshal Pierre was a self-serious man, and while he had not been present during the worst of the violence in Albedo, no doubt he had heard the stories. He made no visible acknowledgement of Leon's threat, instead spinning on the heel of his boot as if on parade, marching off towards his soldiers.

The marshals left and Leon sighed. “Jacques, for the love of the God I do not worship, please bring me brandy."

“You should not be drinking at a time like this, Director."

“And if I wanted to be mothered I would have brought my damn sister!" Leon snapped. Was he the only one holding this army together? “Damn it man, a drink!"

War was a messy business, and even up in his command tent Leon had not been able to avoid the dirt. He felt it clinging to his cracks, burrowing beneath his fingernails. Groaning, he ran a grubby paw through the grimy fur on his head.

“My kingdom for a bath."

“You should be careful of the kinds of wishes you speak aloud." He glanced back and only groaned deeper as Alabaster approached. Months had passed without so much as a word between them, and now all of a sudden here he was again. This man.

The hem of the necromancer's cloak draped over the mud, picking up stragglers as he approached. “In my motherland of Urdo, they believe that nefarious djinn are always listening. Soothing mothers will tell you that wishing such a thing aloud might make it come true, if one of the magical tricksters were to catch wind of it."

“And is it true?" Leon asked. He glanced back at the battlefield, stomach twisting.

Alabaster smirked. “No. The djinn are cruel in their wish-granting, the legends say. You ask for more rain on your crops, and your entire farm might be washed away. Stories to educate children on the virtues of graciousness."

Jacques reappeared then, and Leon gratefully took the brandy from him. “Is that what you were told growing up?" He cocked his head. The concept of a young Alabaster was almost frightening. It felt impossible to imagine the necromancer as a young boy, running around and giggling as others did.

“No," Alabaster said curtly. His eyes went distant as he stared through the trees, watching the battle in the valley below.

“What was it like?" Leon knew he should be giving the battle his full attention, but he knew so little of the dragon and his past, he could not resist the urge to pry at this sudden openness. Not like there was much Leon could do for the fighting now anyway. “I… heard gossip you were a slave."

“Urdo is much like Rennaire, in many ways," Alabaster said softly. “There is more sand, and they follow tribal laws… or at least, they did, until Rennaire invaded."

Leon suddenly felt a little awkward. To him, Urdo had never been anything more than a dot on a map. A little, faraway dot that the financiers could squeeze for gold and spice. That squeeze had helped pay for this new army. Your coffer was his home. His mother country.

“My birth was inauspicious," Alabaster continued. “There is a caste system, it operates much like your own old nobility… only stricter." Leon blanched, struggling to imagine a system harsher than Rennaire's old ways. “My mother was from a lower caste. Unwed. That made me the lowest."

“A beggar?"

“A slave," Alabaster hissed. There was sudden venom in his voice, and he glared out at the slaughter in the valley. The sound of musket volleys and screaming echoed all around them, loud but also distant, sinking into the background. “I was property from the moment my egg hatched. They raised me in knife-pits, and I had killed another boy for sport by the time I was nine years old."

“Barbaric."

“And is Rennaire any different?" Alabaster snapped.

“We don't force children to kill one another."

The dragon scoffed. “You don't think so? If there is only one loaf of bread, and two boys with hungry families, what then, Leon?"

“We changed that. That was the old way."

“That remains to be seen."

“Is this…" Leon hesitated. He knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but he also got the sense that Alabaster had never spoken this aloud before. For whatever reason, he had chosen now to be open. “This history. Is that why you… are the way that you are?"

“Full of hate and violence?" Alabaster laughed. “Don't patronise me, Leon. I will not be reduced to the inevitable outcome of a painful childhood. No. I learned much about corruption as a child… but that is not why I am the way I am." Finally, he broke his gaze from the war below, meeting Leon's own stare so suddenly the jaguar flinched back. “My hatred is my own. It is all I have ever had, do not try and take it from me."

Leon shivered. He had never before felt afraid of Alabaster, but something in the dragon then caused his stomach to turn. He has never been so honest with you. What caused this now?

“I'm sorry," he said gently. He wanted so desperately to reach out and take the man's claw, to hold it, and comfort him. But that was not Alabaster's way, nor was it Leon's. They were stuck as the men they were – the men the world had made them into, no matter what Alabaster said.

He cleared his throat. “You once told me that all systems of power are inherently corrupt. That they exist only to serve the interests of the most powerful. You saw us rise up, you helped me kill a king. Do you still believe that?"

Alabaster looked away again. “That too remains to be seen."

That soft, simple admission wounded Leon more than he would ever admit. He sucked in a breath, and was about to rebuke the necromancer when a runner came rushing up his hill, the young wolverine racked with gasping breaths.

“First Director, First Director!" He called, his voice was high and boyish – young enough that it was still in the process of breaking. He squeaked out the report as Leon raised his eyebrows. “I bring word from Marshal Pierre. He says that General Atif has surrendered the day, and that the Yaravanian forces are standing down to parlay with you!"

Leon smiled. “Marvellous. Alabaster, shall we–" he looked aside and realised that the dragon was gone.

An emptiness coiled in Leon's chest, a slight choke threatening his throat.

Since the revolution, Jacques had become so much more of a servant and so much less of a friend. The other Triumvirate members were busy in Albedo, and out here Leon had to constantly grapple to keep control of his own marshals. He was superior to almost everyone, and they all knew it.

It is so much for me to ask of the world only a single friend? He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to bawl them out like some hysterical wife.

“Very good!" He said to the young messenger, swelling his chest up. “Take a drink with me lad in celebration of our men's hard work, and then tell Marshal Pierre I shall attend him and the General post-haste."

One down. He thought, turning his gaze towards the north, towards the coast. The Kiberlandsmen were three-odd days' march away, with Fort Endo standing between them and Leon's own forces. Forty-thousand men fresh and supplied, ready to face however many healthy soldiers Leon had left, all tired and ragged from this melee with General Atif.

And those forty-thousand were not the only thing Kiberland brought to this war. Leon had gotten lucky, but it was time now to invoke the Ishim ritual once more, and dip himself back into that powerful madness.

Nothing else for it. A drink. And then we kill another Angel.