A Practical Guide to Evil

Hanno had already learned better than to receive that blade with a full parry: he had no intention of allowing a second notch onto the edge of his sword. Instead he nudged the blow aside, quickening his movement with Light, and stepped in close as he pivoted. His armoured elbow caught the enemy’s helmeted cheek from the left, but the villain took the blow without batting an eye. Hanno danced back before a bronze-clad boot could smash into his knee, leaning back an inch to let that wicked blade pass just before his eyes. The dark-skinned hero withdrew even further, making space as his brow furrowed.

The fight was lasting longer than he’d wanted, in no small part because the Barrow Sword was proving significantly harder to handle than he’d expected. Not that the villain had announced himself, or even talked since that debacle with the riddles.

But the hellish landscape that Night had made of this tower had not been enough to obscure the identity of the man facing him, and neither had been the black paint half-heartedly slapped over a very distinct set of bronze armour. Still, Hanno would admit that the shadows were… disquieting. The way they moved just at the corner of your eye, hinting at faces and fanged maws, flapping wings and unblinking eyes. Looking at them too long was disorienting, the movements invited belief into depth and angles that did not exist – rooms seemed smaller or lager, crooked where they should be straight or flat when they were sloped.

And through the dark the Warden of the East watched them all, her intentions still inscrutable. Hanno flexed the stumps of his crippled hands, watching his opponent’s loose stance. The Barrow Sword was not aiming to win, he decided, but to delay.

“This does not have to end in violence,” Hanno said. “Take me to her, Barrow Sword. I will go with my sword sheathed, not to fight but to treat in good faith.”

The other man watched him through the slits of the bronze helm, face impassive for a long moment until it split into a broad grin. The kind some might have called nasty.

“What if we want to fight, hero?”

The voice was distorted, laced with sorcery. It made the air shiver, though focus let him ignore the pull at his mind.

“I do not believe you do,” Hanno evenly said. “So far your side has acted with restr-”

It was only instinct that led him to take a step to the side instead of backwards, which made the difference between life and death. The thrust of that eerie bronze sword – it felt Ligurian to his senses, but deeper somehow – cut the edge of his cheek, drawing blood from a thin wound. If he’d moved too slowly, or backwards, it would have punctured his throat.

“Your side keeps talking,” the Barrow Sword snorted. “Speeches and schemes, like all that strutting about isn’t what made you a load in the first place. Even now you’re trying to get one over the Rhenian, like this is the world’s saddest pissing match.”

The villain flicked his wrist, blood slapping down against cool stone.

“Well, congratulations,” the Barrow Sword grinned. “You kept at it long enough the Warden lost her temper. Get in line, Ashuran, or get stepped on.”

Hanno’s eyes narrowed. Light pulsed under his skin. Perhaps this was more serious a situation that he’d thought. He needed to finish this fight quickly, so he should set out bait.

“There are limits to what I will tolerate,” he warned, “no matter the intentions.”

The man laughed in his face, loudly and scathingly.

“Tolerate?” the Barrow Sword mocked. “You can’t even get past me. What claim have you got on higher honour?”

That ought to do it, Hanno thought. Light flared as his back foot hit the floor, lending him an explosive start. Three steps in the blink of an eye, the villain belatedly raising his sword to strike. Parrying would be a mistake, so he did not. He bent low instead, caught the kick aimed to sweep him to the side and sent it back. The Barrow Sword’s footing stumbled and Hanno smoothly rose, catching the arm holding the sword before it could properly swing back and pivoting sharply. The throw he’d learned through one of the Sages of the West flowed smoothly, the villain’s armoured back slamming against the stone. Best to break the wrist of his sword arm, Hanno decided. He’d be less of a threat without the enchanted blade.

His knee was already rising when he felt magic flare behind him. It was an awkward moment, leaving him little room to maneuver. The mark of a skilled opponent. The dark-haired hero threw himself to the side, but he was too slow by a hair: the ice spike caught the side of his leg, in the weakness of the armour, and he felt sorcery spreading through his blood. A curse. Breathing out sharply, Hanno ran Light through his veins. It was an unpleasant sensation, like skin stayed close to an open flame too long, but he would not take a risk with curses. Landing in a pained crouch, he swept through the spike with a sword stroke and parried a second as he turned to watch his fresh opponent.

A man in rich dark robes, his face obscured by a spell. Too tall to be the Royal Conjurer, though too short to be the Hierophant. Hunted Magician, Hanno thought. That meant old magic, heavy on curses and enchantments, with some fae learning. Behind him the Barrow Sword was getting back up.

“I will ask the same of you as I asked of him,” Hanno said to the Magician. “Take me to the Warden of the East and this can still end peacefully.”

“It can end right now, that is true,” the Magician easily agreed. “All that’s required is your surrender.”

Hanno almost sighed. Was he truly going to have to fight his way to the summit of the tower before he could speak with the Warden, as if this were a Dread Empress’ lair being cracked open? He opened his mouth to reply with one last offer of diplomacy but the words never came out: the air had just shivered. Great power was being used above him, a staggering amount of Night. And it was being used to smother something, he found, eyes narrowing. Forcefully put out a light. Instinct tugged at him urgently, insistently. Whatever it was Catherine Foundling had just begun, it could not be allowed to finish. Hanno slowly raised his sword.

“Change of plans,” the Sword of Judgement told the villains. “I can no longer afford to hold back.”

“Tough talk,” the Barrow Sword scoffed, “but-”

Hanno moved, and there was no longer time for anyone to talk.

The Kingfisher Prince laid a hand on the Mirror Knight’s shoulder, face taut with concentration. A moment passed and then Cordelia dimly felt it: a ripple on the pond. A murmur of water against her hand. Mere months ago, she thought, she would have felt nothing at all. Even being a claimant, she had found, was as if a veil had been lifted on some part of Creation. Like she’d been allowed to peek behind the stage and see the pierced bucket used to make the rain, the mage on a ladder making lightning. Withdrawing his hand, Frederic Goethal smiled.

“He’s coming back,” the Prince of Brus said. “Any moment now.”

Cordelia slowly nodded.

“An aspect was used,” the First Prince said. “Aid, you called it?”

The fair-haired man nodded.

“Most of the time it is little more than an instinct taking me where I most need to be,” Prince Frederic said, “but it has some other minor uses.”

More than just that, Cordelia thought. Not once since Frederic had become Chosen had soldiers he fought alongside with been routed. His mere presence seemed to be enough to turn even the greenest of levies into stubborn, tenacious veterans. Otto, in his letters, had described it as his friend being ‘a nail keeping our line in place wherever he stands’. The Prince of Bremen, ever plain in speech, had a way of turning almost poetic when it came to the Prince of Brus. The close friendship between those two had been one of the few lights brought about by this war, in Cordelia’s opinion.

Were Frederic a woman, she suspected they would already be wed.

She set aside the idle thoughts as the Mirror Knight came to, his blank eyes focusing on his surroundings as he took in the sight of the riders and the starlit plain.

“Hallowed,” Christophe de Pavanie cursed. “I was bespelled, wasn’t I?”

“We believe so,” Cordelia calmly said, her voice immediately commanding his attention. “Though we did not find the caster responsible for it.”

The green-eyed Chosen grimaced.

“These are the Black Queen’s picked grounds, Your Highness,” he said. “We won’t fight anything she doesn’t want us to find. I thank you for freeing me nonetheless.”

“It was my pleasure,” Prince Frederic dismissed.

Christophe de Pavanie quite willingly gave out every detail of how he had gotten where he stood and why, including the number of Chosen that the Sword of Judgement had led into this mess. He did not, however, speak of what she most wanted to know. Accordingly, she took the matter in hand.

“As you can see,” Cordelia said, “we come late to the evening. Can you tell us what happened to rouse the Warden of the East to such anger?”

Though it would make a great many things easier if it were a blunder by Hanno of Arwad responsible, she did not truly hope for that to be the case. The consequences of a strong falling out there would send fracture lines through the Grand Alliance. She has too many allies, too many followers, the Lycaonese princess thought. The Blood had already expressed in private their doubts that the war could be won without her, and if the Circle of Thorns was to be believed the League of Free Cities was treating her as the main negotiating partner in the Grand Alliance.

A great many things would fall apart in a matter of days, Cordelia well knew, if the unstinting support from the most dreaded figure of their age came to an end.

“She’s not angry,” the Mirror Knight replied.

Cordelia hid her doubt behind a smile.

“Have you grasped something, Lord Christophe?” she asked.

The man looked frustrated, fiddling with the dark locks that his helmet kept pressed against his forehead.

“I understand I’m no friend of hers,” the Mirror Knight said, “and that my judgement is held in poor esteem.”

Cordelia’s eyes narrowed the slightest bit. That was more awareness than she’d expected of a man of his reputation. Had his time under the Grey Pilgrim truly tempered him? When the punishment had been doled out she’d thought it nonsense, just another example of the White Knight letting off his charges with a slap on the wrist after they behaved atrociously – Christophe de Pavanie had accused the Queen of Callow of cooperating with the Dead King before mutilating a high officer of the Grand Alliance – but perhaps there had been some use to it.

“But,” Cordelia prompted.

“If she really were angry, Your Highness,” the younger man said, “that fortress would have landed on us.”

She blinked in surprise.

“And while we were broken and dying,” the Mirror Knight bluntly said, “she’d have sailed it back up in the clouds, where we can’t reach it.”

“We’d have found a way to reach up there,” Frederic said, tone calm and utterly certain. “There’s always a way.”

“Maybe,” the Mirror Knight replied, “but we haven’t had to, Kingfisher. Because she landed the tower in the middle of a plain where everyone can see it, bold as you please.”

“You believe this is a challenge,” Cordelia stated.

His head bobbed up and down.

“If it’s not a war,” Christophe de Pavanie said, “it’s a spar.”

A look at Frederic, who was frowning thoughtfully and not disagreeing, told her he was coming around to the thought. Cordelia’s gaze moved to the tall tower in the distance, the writhing streak of darkness jutting out of the starlit grass. What is Catherine meant to accomplish with all this? And there would be a purpose, she thought. Under the thuggish swagger and the affected drawl lay a clever, calculating mind. You forced a fight, Cordelia thought. With him, and perhaps with me as well. Was it as simple as forcing them to stand together against her?

No, it would not be. There had to be a victor, that much could not be worked around. Cordelia had combed through every historical archive she could reach when looking for possible compromises, and the only recorded instances of a Name being shared were siblings. Even the Bitter Blacksmiths, while one Chosen and the other Damned, were brother and sister. There could only be one Warden of the West, which meant that any cooperation between them – even against a common foe – could only be temporary. There must be a deeper purpose, one Cordelia could not yet suss out.

“We will not learn the answer standing here,” she finally said. “We must ride to the tower.”

“There’s no telling what will be waiting for us there, Your Highness,” the Mirror Knight said. “It would be safer for you to stay behind with your soldiers. The Kingfisher Prince and I-”

“Will be escorting me to the tower,” Cordelia pleasantly smiled.

The green-eyed hero turned to object, but then he caught her gaze and slowly closed his mouth. A moment passed as she watched him, unblinking, and thought of how very tired she was of having to herd Chosen instead of the man who should have been doing it all this time. His mouth stayed closed.

“Let us proceed, then,” the blonde princess amicably said. “One of my retinue will cede a horse to you, Lord Christophe.”

He hesitantly nodded. Her gaze turned to Frederic.

“You mentioned,” Cordelia said, “that your aspect tells you where you are most needed.”

The Kingfisher Prince, looking faintly amused, nodded.

“It is not always clear-cut, especially in complicated situations, but it does grant me such a sense,” the Prince of Brus said.

“And where does it tell you to be now?” she asked.

He cocked his head to the side.

“South,” the Kingfisher Prince said after a moment. “North to the tower pulls at well, but not as strongly.”

“I saw lights south before I was bespelled,” the Mirror Knight offered. “Sorcery. There might be a fight.”

Cordelia took a step back from the immediate, trying to understand the broader pattern. The Chosen had been split up by Catherine as they crossed into Arcadia, likely because they were too strong a threat together. Which implied her defences were inferior to the force of heroes gathered. So what she wants is not something that can be obtained by force. If it were, she would have gathered more force. Should Cordelia then ignore the obvious step of gathering the separated Chosen to march on the tower together? If force was not to be the deciding factor, it would be a waste of time to…

No, that was a flawed approach. Though Catherine did not seem intent on using force to achieve her end, she had acted to prevent force being used against her. Which meant that Cordelia could obtain leverage by gathering the Chosen. It would come at the cost of time, ever the scarcest of resources in a time of crisis, but the blonde princess was likely being bought time at this very moment: no one had caught sight of Hanno of Arwad, which meant the odds were good he had already reached the tower. She planned for that, Cordelia thought. She believes she can drive back or capture the Sword of Judgement.

Yet, for all that Cordelia Hasenbach deeply disliked the man, she would not deny he was an exception fighter. Handling him would take time. Time enough, perhaps, for her to gather the Chosen and prepare her own attempt to resolve the situation. Eyes still on the distant tower, Cordelia breathed out shallowly. This was not so different, she thought, from the schemes of the Highest Assembly. The rules and the pieces were different, but Cordelia had not been born knowing the rules of the Ebb and Flow. She had learned them, as she would learn the rules of Named.

“Then let us ride south,” Cordelia Hasenbach smiled, “and lend our comrades a hand.”

The stairs were hungry.

Or at least the Night slithering atop them. Something was coiled and ready to strike at his back just out of his sight, a sense of hostility like an itch between his shoulder blades. Hanno rose carefully, sword in hand and eyes ever moving. He had defeated the gatekeepers, which meant even deeper peril now awaited him. Either the Warden’s own right hand or some kind of bound creature. Most likely the former, as Catherine Foundling had never known to use any monster save the ones she rode. Either the Hierophant or the Archer, Hanno believed. Vivienne Dartwick was not a villain or the kind of woman to lend her hand to this, and would be a lesser threat even she were.

The Princess was not as skilled a combatant as the rest of the Woe, and likely never would be. If that sort of confrontation had been in her nature, she would never have become the Thief. Besides, she was to be Queen of Callow one day. Catherine would not use her as sorely as she had used the two downstairs. They would live, Hanno knew. The Barrow Sword’s leg could be reattached with a spell before he bled out, and the Hunted Magician would be able to cast when he finished swallowing his teeth. Hanno had broken his fingers, not his wrists, it should be enough for the man to be capable of basic healing.

Hanno’s boots scuffed the stone as he passed the threshold to the second level, finding it to be a single large hall. Ornate reliefs of stone depicting devils slaying each other dripped with liquid shadow, though he saw that the shadow dripped up as well as down. There was an open gate on the other side of the hall and not a sign of anything here aside from the Night. The dark-skinned hero paused.

“This is a trap,” Hanno plainly said.

“Trap,” a voice behind him agreed, just as the arrow went through his back.

Biting down on a hiss of pain, he turned even as he considered the angle the arrow had punched through the plate at. Not just behind, but – Archer’s boots hit his face as she finished leaping down from above the gate he’d entered through, sending him tumbling in a pained tangle of limbs. A detonation of Light against his side slowed the spin, allowing him to land in a controlled skid, but it also pushed the arrow deeper. Archer landed gracefully, coat fluttering as she nocked and loosed another arrow in the span of a single breath. His body was already moving, but he corrected in time with another burst of Light. Not a single arrow but too, the second fired just as he began to move to swat away the first.

He angled himself so the first would miss and he could parry the second, narrowly. Archer sighed.

“You’re too quick in a small room,” she said. “A bow won’t work.”

“If I had not adjusted,” Hanno evenly said, “that second shot would have gone through my eye.”

“I aimed for the one opposite Cat’s,” Archer cheerfully informed him. “You know, to fit the whole opposite Wardens thing.”

A short pause, a brazen grin.

“You’re welcome.”

Of all the Woe, Hanno had always disliked the Archer the most. Even the Adjutant, for all his moral void and bland antipathy, was no match for the casual cruelty Archer delighted in. That she could be charming when she wished to be only made it worse, as it drew the eye away from the viciousness of her words and deeds. People, even those who should know better, forgave much of a witty woman in good humour. Hanno would not have made that mistake even if he did not have an arrow jutting out of his back. It went through plate like butter and made not a sound. Dangerous. He broke the arrow’s shaft but left the head in the flesh. He could fight through the pain, it was better to wait for proper healing.

“This has gone on for long enough,” Hanno curtly said. “Whatever grievance the Warden of the East has, there were better ways to handle it. If this does not end now, it will have consequences.”

The Archer casually tossed away her bow and loosed her quiver’s strap. There was something wrong, something off. His eyes followed her, trying to find a match for what his instincts screamed.

“Consequences, huh,” the Archer said. “You know, Shiny Boots, I argued you’d make the finer Warden but the more you talk the more I think this was the right idea.”

“This is sheer stupidity,” he harshly retorted. “The-”

“Nah, this is just a slap across the face,” the Archer cut in, amused. “You’re not meant to like it. Sheer stupidity, now, that’d be trying to dig up a dwarven gate on the sly.”

He went still in surprise.

“Of course we know, Hanno,” Archer smiled. “We’re the fucking Woe. Always assume we know.”

They’d been seen through, then, despite their best efforts. Did the First Prince know as well? It had been her he meant to fool.

“So that’s why,” Hanno said, almost relieved. “Then this is a misunderstanding. I never int-”

“Eh,” Archer shrugged, unsheathing her longknives and idly spinning them. “I don’t really care.”

His jaw tightened. She was baiting him.

“Then there is no more point in speaking to you,” Hanno said. “This is my last warning, Archer: get out of my way.”

“Shiny Boots,” she patiently said, “you must be confused. Do I look like someone who gives a shit about-”

Evil’s stories might be silenced, but a gloater was a gloater. He burst into movement while she was jeering, but he saw from the lack of surprise in her eyes that he’d not taken her aback. Unfortunate. He wouldn’t be able to end this quickly. He struck first, high and to the side, not committing to the blow. She gave ground lightly, circling him, and continued to give it the more he pressed forward. Hanno took a step towards the gate, testing her, but she did not get in the way. She wouldn’t force herself to engage on his terms even if he feigned the intention of going up without first putting her down. Archer was the most seasoned villain he’d fought since the Black Knight, and promised to be just as much of a headache.

Fine. He’d strike properly, then. His boot hit the floor and Light flared as he shot forward, feinting low and to the side to draw her blades. One did sweep down, lazily, but as he moved into his true blow – a deep thrust at belly height – she darted towards him. One moment her stance had been entirely loose, the heartbeat after her entire body was moving. Sensing the danger he hastily moved to the side, a razor-sharp blade harmless skidding against the side of his plate instead of plunging through his armpit, and shifted his footing so he could swing at her back. He’d expected her to dodge by rolling forward, using her momentum, but instead she dropped down.

The edge of his sword whispered just above her hair as she tried to sweep his legs. She was strong and the angle bade for him, so he took a step back just in time for her to rise into a blow at his throat. An opening, she’d overcommitted: he slammed his pommel onto her hand, forcing her to drop the longknife and was about to break her jaw on the second blow when he saw the glint of steel from the corner of his eye. He leaned back, the blade slicing through his cheek and lip, and before he could kick her in the stomach she darted back. But not, he saw, without first snatching up her dropped knife. Hanno’s hand came up to touch the side of his face, coming away red.

He could feel the blood going down his cheek, dripping down onto his armour. Over the white cloak.

“Those reflexes are a little much, Shiny Boots,” Archer complained. “That little mistake should have cost you an eye.”

She was a skilled combatant, Hanno thought, but not this skilled. She’d exploited his propensity to close distance so he could use Light to quickly end a fight to very nearly land a crippling blow two exchanges into their fight. That had not been improvised.

“You’ve trained to kill me,” Hanno calmly said.

“Figured I might have to, one of these days,” she casually shrugged. “If you ever got ideas about Cat being more trouble than she’s worth.”

Even that, though, should not be enough. She was good, but those instincts were- Hanno’s eyes narrowed as he studied her once more. The ease she handled those two longknives with, the way they just seemed to fit. Those instincts were not an Archer’s instincts.

“You’re becoming the Ranger,” Hanno said.

“Claimant,” Archer grinned, “but it’s early days yet. But enough yapping, yeah? We gonna do this or-”

It did not take him by surprise when she darted forward, any more than it had taken her. He knew better than to lower his guard against Indrani the Archer. Four steps forward, quick as an arrow, and when he raised his sword she smiled. Footing switching, she suddenly drew back and if Hanno had been striking her it would have gone wide. But he was not. Instead he was taking a step forward, closing the distance, and her weight was headed the wrong way. She kept drawing away, to make distance, and it was true that by simple physical ability she was slightly faster than him. Hanno, though, did not rely on his body alone.

A burst of Light behind his left foot pushed him forward, lengthening his stride, and though it shot his footing he adjusted with another burst of Light just under his right shoulder blade. The thrust ripped through her coat at shoulder height and broke chain mail, but delivered nothing more than bruises. Archer had reacted quickly, dropping down towards the floor, but Hanno was not finished. His steel-clad boot caught her in stomach, slamming her against the stone with a pained gasp. He heard one of the lower ribs break. She wore no gauntlets, the Sword of Judgement thought as his sword rose. Cutting through both wrists should end this.

Instead he had to duck back, a longknife spinning through where his face had been a heartbeat earlier, and she rolled back into a crouch. He pressed a step forward, ignoring the knife still in the air, but she darted back before he could close the distance. Her eyes weren’t even on his sword, he noticed, but on his footing. She’s watching for the Light. The acceleration trick would not take her by surprise twice. Still, the exchange had cost her a broken rib and half her longknives – which he heard clatter against the stone behind him. This was not going to end quickly, as he had feared, so he’d used Light to melt the knife she had thrown. It should tip the balance in his favour.

It would be close, Hanno thought, but he would get to the Warden of the East in time. He could feel it in his – a wet, red gasp passed through his lips. Pain in his back. He’d been struck through his armour? No, the arrow. Something used the opening. Gritting his teeth, he flared Light at his back only for it to be swallowed. Devoured. Blood turning cold, Hanno turned even as he felt the spike impaling his back beginning to raise him off the ground.

Catherine Foundling, one-eyed and smiling, met his gaze.

“Did you really think you’d just get to fight your way up to me one brawl at a time?” she said. “Really, Hanno, I’m insulted.”

There was a swell of power, of Night, and after a wave of pain all Hanno knew was darkness.