Emeric stood at the head of a sizable formation of peasants, the steel tips of their weapons glittering in the air. Twenty rows wide, ten columns deep, the sweat-soaked faces of two hundred spear-wielding soldiers were twisted in exhausted concentration. All around them were simir blocks of soldiers, marching this way and that, the quiet rattle of drums overpping across the rolling fields beyond the army's camp. There had once been dry stalks of grass and stubborn shrubs clinging to the jungle-pressed grassnds, but days of mind-numbing marching had worn the greenery away, leaving nothing but bare soil and clouds of dust kicked up by soldier's feet. Standing before his particur contingent of soldiers, Emeric was alone in his Knight's armor. He was the only Irregur amongst their number, and rather than standing stalwart and proud, an inspiration for the troops, his neck was craned forward, eyes paying very close attention to the pcement of his feet.

  Commander Graf had ordered the entire day be spent on practicing oblique marching. Further, he had said in no uncertain terms that there would be no rest until the maneuver was perfected. The oblique march was a difficult thing for the peasants to achieve, and to his great consternation, Emeric found himself struggling as well. It had been too long since he had practiced any kind of formation on foot, and the lessons which had been ingrained in him as a youth had sadly faded with the years.

  He could not protest, unfortunately. The oblique march was a niche skill, but potentially critical in the right circumstances. At the beat of a drum, every soldier in an advancing column was to pivot on their heels, turning forty-five degrees to the left or right, all without breaking stride. As Graf had expined in one of his frequent strategy meetings, it was an integral part of their upcoming battle strategy, for it allowed the entire army's line to widen as the wings filed outward while maintaining the advance, simultaneously clearing space for reinforcements to pour into the gap.

  As Emeric whispered for the drummers to beat out the order for a left oblique march, however, it seemed fairly unlikely that the peasants would ever reach the required skill for the order to be given in battle. The drummers rattled out the tone, sticks bouncing on the instruments. Some executed the order precisely, matching the required angle to a tee, but they were in the minority. The formation fell apart mere seconds after the signal had sounded. Soldiers who had turned just a little too far knocked against their fellows, stumbling both, a rippling cascade of failure. Shouts began shortly after, accusations of purposeful bumping or prodding scornfully thrown, and Emeric ordered a halt with a deeply frustrated sigh.

  Commander Graf's arguments for training the peasants were logically sound. Emeric respected the man deeply, for a great multitude of reasons, and was trying his utmost to fulfill his orders. But deep down, as the days passed by and the army continued to wear circles in the grass, he struggled to believe the effort was worthwhile. Commander Graf was used to commanding his mercenaries, highly skilled soldiers who had voluntarily sought out a life on the field of battle. The peasantry he trained now were conscripts, unmotivated and uninterested in anything beyond surviving to the next morning. So long as they did not die or desert, they would collect their wages at the end of hostilities, their performance as an individual of no great import. They had no sense of honor, no reason to work harder than that which would preserve their own lives. While the efforts to train them were slowly bearing fruit, Emeric suspected the expectations Graf had set were ftly unachievable.

  But he had been given an order to train the troops, and train them he would. At his command the block of spears disentangled itself, lining up in neat rows once more. Emeric nodded to the drummer, and the march began again.

  As they marched forward for a time, Emeric's attention fell to the distant hill on which the battle mages were training. After their confrontation with Graf, the King's wooden-masked advisor had abandoned all pretenses. They were now openly working with the mages to develop anti-firearm spells, substituting their expertise for the dwindling number of elder mages.

  The King no doubt wished to bring the hideous magics of the archmages to bear, but his entreaties had thus far fallen upon deaf ears. There was little the King could do about it. The loyalty of the archmages was a tenuous thing, as could be expected from individuals whose power perhaps rivaled entire nations. They had slowly returned to their hidden studdies, spread across the nds, uninterested in the conflict when it became clear the Champion's magics would not require their countering. The firearms interested them briefly, deying their departure, but only briefly. Now they were gone.

  Emeric tracked the robed, wooden-masked mage as they stepped between the battle mages. Were they an archmage, then? The enigmatic figure certainly held themselves as if they were one, and to their credit, they had survived their encounter with the Witch. But that was not proof in and of itself. An archmage was a difficult thing to define at the best of times. If they truly deserved the title, and were willing to fight on Sporatos' behalf, there very well may be nothing to fear in the coming battle. Not unless the Tiger of Sacia revealed himself, that is. And what a horror that would be. It had been centuries since the continent had suffered a battle between archmages.

  A part of Emeric hoped that the mage was as powerful as they presented themselves. Another part of him prayed that they were not. If the brewing tension within the camp came to a head, a civil war in miniature, the presence of an archmage would extract a toll in blood beyond fathoming. If things remained peaceable between the factions, however, he might very well beg for the masked stranger's aid in the coming battle.

  Emeric was woken from his dreary contemptions by the sight of a messenger making their way across the field. The word they bore was undoubtedly important, as it was brought by a rider, not a runner. Seeing the young messenger girl steer her animal towards his column of troops, Emeric quickly ordered the drummer to beat out the tune for the oblique march. He wanted the peasants to practice the maneuver at least one more time if he was called away.

  The messenger reached him right around the time the peasant's spearblock began to dissolve into familiar chaos, shouts and curses filling the air. Emeric ignored this, nodding his greeting to the girl atop her lithe steed.

  "Greetings, Sir Emeric!"

  "Greetings to you, My Lady," he said with a slight bow. The girl's clothing was practical riding wear, but sewn from fine materials, and the horse was of an excellent stock. She was almost certainly a noble too young to fight, yet eager to find her way into an army.

  "Message from Commander Graf, Sir," she said, not dismounting from her animal. "You are to join him for a meeting immediately, unless engaged in a task necessary to preserve the safety of the army."

  "I am not," Emeric replied. "Please inform Commander Graf that I will be attending as promptly as possible."

  "Of course, Sir," the girl replied, popping her reigns. Her horse pivoted quickly, kicking up a cloud of eye-watering dust as she hurried back towards the camp. An adroit rider. Emeric made an effort to remember her face, should she ever be interested in joining the cavalry.

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  "What have the Knights been saying of my confrontation with the King?" Graf asked.

  Emeric froze, one hand still on the tent fp. Graf was bent over a table, a rge map of Tulian draped overtop. Papers littered every avaible surface, shorthand written across every visible inch. The commander of the Night's Eye gnced up.

  "Well? I'm not fool enough to think rumors haven't spread."

  Emeric cleared his throat, entering the tent slowly, to give himself time to think. No one else was present.

  "You are correct that word has gotten out," Emeric ventured cautiously. "There is a variety of views that have been taken amongst my Knights."

  "Stop dawdling." Graf's words were spoken calmly, but firmly. "What fraction of the nobility now resent my command of the army?"

  Emeric swallowed. "Perhaps a third, sir, among those I frequent. But I must profess their loyalty to the King, and by extension, their loyalty to those he has pced his trust in."

  "Yes, well, thank goodness for that." Emeric could not tell if the comment was sarcastic. Graf moved several papers around on the table, running a finger along a list of figures. "Are they drawn along any convenient lines? Pre-existing factions, or perhaps geographical boundaries?"

  "Not... that I have noticed, sir. But I have not searched for any such connection."

  "I would appreciate it if you considered the matter. It would be best if they could be separated in the coming battle, to minimize any potential conflict of interest."

  Emeric nodded slowly, a gesture that was lost on the engrossed Graf. While he waited in silence, he took in the mercenary's tent. Around the space was strewn evidence of a great many hours spent at work, the artifacts of strategy scattered on every ft surface. Manuscripts, scrolls, and maps of old battles made up much of the debris, but not all of it. There were also a number of strange weapons, of designs Emeric could not pce, trophies of battles decades past. The firearm that the Champion had presented the King with was leaning against one table, a pair of strangely curved swords fnking it on either side. A foreign helmet from a desert nd rested on the dirt beneath, its face smithed into a rendition of a beaked scowl. Had the circumstances been different, Emeric would have been awed to bear witness to the collection. The product of sixty years at war, open to his perusal.

  "The cultist opposes me directly," Graf suddenly said. Emeric's head snapped up, but the mercenary still hadn't looked away from his map. "They now regurly insist to the King that I be dismissed from his service."

  "I see," Emeric said, taking great pains to ensure his voice showed no emotion.

  "Thus far, the King has maintained my authority over the army, but I sense his growing wariness. The cultist has a great deal of influence over him." Graf's eyes flicked up, meeting Emeric's. "In your estimation, should things come to violence between the mage and myself, who would the Knights follow?"

  "I–" Emeric swallowed, shaking his head in disbelief. "I cannot say, sir. I pray that they would have the honor to obey their King, as they should in all things."

  "Hm. I wonder if he even has the stomach to choose a side."

  Emeric's eyes fshed. "Commander Graf. You do not have the right to speak of your liege in such a manner."

  A small curve bent Graf's lips. He moved a sheet of paper across the map.

  "So you are among those that pce your loyalty with the King first and foremost, then?"

  "I am a Knight," Emeric snapped.

  Graf chuckled. "So you are, Sir Emeric. So you are." The mercenary straightened, groaning slightly as his aged back crackled and popped. He rubbed at it with one hand, gesturing to the map with his other. "Your thoughts, if you wouldn't mind."

  Emeric approached the table, smoothing down his proverbial bristles. So the disparaging comment to the King had been a test? Or perhaps a genuine sentiment, but one that nonetheless provided the mercenary with information? Emeric couldn't tell. He despised politics, and accordingly, he forced the matter from his mind. He joined Graf at the table, leaning over the map.

  What he saw frankly shocked him. It was a map of the Tulian capital, but one of a quality that put the King's own rendition to shame. Each and every individual street of the city was depicted, including height information on many of the buildings, as well as beled points of interest, such as garrisons and strategic crossroads. The fields beyond the city were rendered topographically in two-foot increments, creating a swirling pattern of inordinately detailed terrain. A thin dotted line traced a semi-circle across the empty field, outling the estimated ranges of the Champion's various firearms.

  Perhaps most surprisingly were the plethora of features that none of the King's maps had shown. Structures littered the exterior of the city's walls, squat, round buildings that abutted the wall. They were beled as "bunkers," a word Emeric did not know, and each one had been marked with the image of the rge bronze weapons– they were called cannons, by the map's key.

  "Is this truly accurate?" He asked, counting the new structures. "There are dozens of these 'bunkers.' I can't image so many being completed so quickly."

  "It is perfectly accurate, as of two days ago," Graf said. "The bunkers, as you might have surmised, contain cannons. They are akin to a castle's murderholes, but scaled to fit the massive weapons. There is no entrance to the structures on the wall's exterior, so they will have to be either outright destroyed or taken from within the city. As for the rapidity of their construction, the Champion's strange white stone is responsible. I have received reports that it is poured as a liquid, only to become solid as brick in a matter of hours."

  Emeric traced a line across the field, where a semicircle of X's was drawn. "And these? Defenses against cavalry, I presume?"

  "Correct. They are akin to the mobile wooden defenses utilized by her army earlier, but are permanent variants, also constructed of the white stone."

  "There is no gap depicted."

  "Because no gap exists. They would have to be destroyed with spells or pickaxes before cavalry could advance. As it is, they present a difficulty for even advancing infantry. Certainly, they entirely prevent the use of siege engines." Graf pointed to streets within the city, where yet more lines were drawn between the buildings. The city itself was so dense with notation that Emeric felt he may go blind before he absorbed every detail. "Within the city she has also reinforced a number of strategic junctions. Some intersections are now blocked with bunkers ten feet tall, others with trenches deep enough for an orc to stand upright without being exposed. While we've found no immediate evidence for it, my sources insist the pattern of their pcement indicates an underground network of tunnels which connect the majority of these empcements. I assume the influx of borers from the countryside is responsible for allowing such a system to be created. If they truly are connected, considering the ease with which she wields spell-like explosives, it is no doubt that any attempt to breach the tunnel system will be thwarted by a prompt cave-in."

  Graf's finger rasped across the parchment as he continued to trace invisible lines. "Ultimately, she has even prepared for the fall of the city. The non-combatant vessels her Navy has captured are moored in harbor, and multiple avenues of retreat have been secured, connected to ramshackle shelters rge enough to briefly house the majority of the city's popution for the duration of a battle. Even if we were to capture the city, it would be an empty husk, devoid of a productive popuce. And no, I haven't the faintest clue where she intends to take them. I fear, based on accounts of her personality, that she is equally at a loss for her pnned exodus. Regardless, one can also assume that if a commander so spiteful as she is forced to retreat, she will utilize what remains of her explosive supplies to deny the King as much of the city's infrastructure as possible. We will have fought and died to win nothing more than a vacant pile of rubble."

  Emeric accepted this information silently. He continued to run his eyes over the map, taking in more and more with every pass. There was far more to the Champion's preparations that Graf had not bothered to outline.

  "I can see why you insisted on training the troops before the assault." Emeric eventually said, forcing himself to chuckle. It sounded nervous, even to his ears. "The Champion has turned the whole of her city into a fortress. A castle of unfathomable proportions. I doubt there has been a greater defense ever constructed."

  "Oh, hardly." Graf waved his hand dismissively. "The Locks of the Sea dwarf this, and they've stood for millennia, despite Sinti's best attempts to the contrary. And while it was never finished, the Northern Empire's proposed capital would have been even grander, not to mention the defensive masterpiece that shelters the Carrion Navy's shipyards." Graf lifted the map, rolling it up. "Regardless, it's nothing to concern yourself over."

  Emeric stared. "Pardon, Commander Graf, but I very much beg to differ. This is a matter of incredible concern."

  "Do you know why we are training the troops, Emeric?"

  The non-sequitur caught Emeric off guard.

  "To prepare for assaulting this monstrosity?"

  "No. So that we never need to do so." Graf slipped the map into a protective tube, folding his hands at the small of his back, stretching his muscles with a groan. "The Champion has predicated her strategy on two things: the superiority of her weaponry, and the superiority of her troops. Unfortunately, we cannot match the first. We can, however, challenge her dominance over the second."

  "She has trained her troops for over half a year," Emeric reflexively insisted. "We have trained ours for little more than a week."

  "The Tulian forces have been trained, yes, but who has been training them? Old Tulian's forgotten army officers, a Champion who is but a babe to our world, and, of course, Lady Evie."

  Emeric's jaw instinctively clenched at the mention of the feline. "I have seen their skill firsthand, Graf. Their peasants are not to be underestimated. The Champion's consort was trained by your hand, after all."

  "So she was. But unlike the Champion, I have access to dozens of Irregurs trained by my hand. In fact, you are rather unique in being allowed to train a contingent of troops. As you likely noticed, the majority of the army is being drilled by members of the Night's Eye, with a particur emphasis on guiding the youngest of them."

  "The youngest?" Emeric licked his lips. He had not noticed that particur detail. "You intend to provide them a combat css." He spoke it as a statement, not a question.

  "I do. Our defeat is inevitable otherwise."

  "Is this why the King is not present at this meeting?"

  "Partially. But it is for his own good. He could never approve openly of arming the peasants, and so I must put on the charade of doing so surreptitiously."

  "But even if you provide them such an opportunity, it would not be enough to overcome such a monstrous construction," Emeric argued. It was an odd thing, to debate with a commanding officer, but it was something Graf heavily encouraged. "While we slog through all her obstacles, the firearms will tear us to shreds."

  "Storming the city would be possible, if costly. With appropriately prepared troops, we would have the requisite numbers to overwhelm her. But I will not shed blood unnecessarily. No, Emeric, we train for a different reason entirely."

  "I cannot fathom what."

  "Do you know what is happening in the Tulian Capital at this moment?" Graf asked. It was a rhetorical question, and Emeric didn't answer. "I don't, not for certain, but I have my suspicions. Firstly, Lady Evie is doubtlessly insisting that the Champion flee the city immediately. The Champion is refusing, of course, because if there is one trait common to all Champions, it is their uncompromising stubbornness. Further, several Tulian scouts surveying our army have already been allowed to escape, which means that they are aware that I have begun training our troops to an acceptable standard. This means, then, that they are faced with two options: cower behind their walls until I have repced this peasant rabble with an unsurmountable force, or sally out while they still possess a modicum of advantage, hoping to break the army's morale while there is still a chance."

  "Which do you desire she do?" Emeric asked. It felt less as if he was participating in a conversation, and more receiving a lecture. He accepted this easily enough; he had long since given up pretending he could predict Graf's tactics. Now he only hoped to follow them.

  "Wait in the city, of course," Graf hummed. "If she is content to stay behind the walls, I will happily spend the next sixth months creating an army that will swat her capital from the map like a bothersome fly. Her manufacture of firearms is limited by iron and powder, neither of which she can resupply whilst under siege. The weapons she already possesses are powerful, but they cannot answer a force of twelve thousand Irregurs. "

  Emeric bit his tongue. The thought of twelve thousand Irregur peasants, some day dismissed from the army, returning to their vilges... Chaos. Inevitable chaos, rebellion guaranteed in a matter of months. But it was not his pce to object.

  "Which do you expect she will do, then?" Emeric asked instead.

  Graf raised his eyebrows in slight surprise. "Sally out, of course. Have you not heard the news? Her army began preparations to leave the city several hours ago. Battle will likely be joined tomorrow, perhaps the following day at the test."

  "Ah."