The cavalry bolted down the hill in a loose diamond formation, aimed right down the throat of Shale's cannons. The artillery lieutenant split her command in response, keeping the Napoleons pouring canister shot into the sides of the Sporatons, while the Ordnance Rifles raised their barrels, aiming for that distant hill.

  Sara and Evie reached the cannons just as the first of the Ordnance Rifles barked, a shrieking slug of iron sent downrange. The other three quickly joined, pouring into the onrushing cavalry.

  The first shot hit empty air with a spray of sparks, ricocheting up into the sky as it tumbled end over end. The next shot behaved simirly, as well as the third, but the fourth shot was different.

  Through her spygss, Sara watched the round suddenly halt in midair, embedded in an invisible shield. It was a bizarre sight. The slug's forward motion had been entirely interrupted, but not its spinning. It buzzed in pce, spinning like a top as it slowly, painstakingly, inched deeper into the hidden barrier.

  The Knight that would have been struck nudged their horse to the left, clearing the way, and suddenly the slug zipped through the shield, embedding itself into the earth with an explosion of soil.

  While Sara prepared to face down the Knights, spells began to rear their ugly heads to her left and right, assaulting her army.

  A spear of ice some twenty feet long coalesced in the air, hovering over the heads of the Sporaton spears, then shot forward at a blinding pace. It hit the musket lines at a steep angle, impaling a dozen soldiers in one fell swoop. For the first time in the battle, screams of agony rose from Sara's own troops, adding to the groaning cacophony of wounded. The nce of ice was thin compared to its length, and those that had been pierced through the leg or stomach were pinned in pce like a wriggling insect, screaming pitifully.

  Then Sara felt a bloom of heat wash over the left side of her body, accompanied by a fsh of light no cannon could rival. A horrific, wailing screech filled the air, so loud that it briefly overpowered Champion's Inspiration. The sound reminded her of a tablesaw striking the head of a nail, but this was no brief spark-throwing surprise. A beam of heat so bright she could see it through her closed eyelids swept from left to right, piercing straight through the rows of armor and flesh. Dozens of soldiers were burned alive in an instant, secondary explosions popping off as powder charges were lit by mere proximity to the beam. Half-loaded rifles began to discharge wildly through the ranks while the soldiers scrambled to rip off their armor, which had heated to the point it was burning their skin.

  The beam was gone just as quickly as it had arrived. Sporaton troops began to rush into the holes it had opened, stirring up a cloud of ash that had moments ago been flesh.

  The story repeated itself across the line as the mages finally began to engage in earnest. This was what they were trained for, the very thing Evie had so feared. Battle mages, born and raised to fight on the open fields. The ground itself began to heave beneath Sara's feet as boulder-sized chunks of stone were lifted and flung to crush life and limb. A cloud pouring torrents of rain opened on the far right fnk, needle droplets of water shot fast enough to pierce holes through exposed flesh. Muskets cracked in response, seeking out the mages, abandoning their fire towards the regur troops in favor of targeting anything that even vaguely resembled a mage. The air shimmered with a supernatural haze, making it difficult to aim, but there were thousands of muskets firing. Some would have to strike true, she prayed.

  Meanwhile, deep in the center of the two armies, there was nothing. Sara stood in a space occupied only by bodies. Neither the Sporatons nor their reserves sought to fill the gap the cannons had opened. It had only taken one example for that lesson to sink in.

  And so Sara and Evie stood, watching spells fre to life as the cavalry charged. The battle was well beyond her direct control. The lines had met, the location chosen. It was up to the smaller commanders now, fighting to keep their squads standing strong. The front rows of her troops had exchanged their muskets for halberds, well aware that everything depended on the slow, grinding melee that was emerging.

  And the cavalry. They rushed across the field at a pace Sara would have once thought impossible for a force so heavily armored. The mile between Sara and the enemy was rapidly eaten away. They had barely more than a minute before the cavalry would be on them.

  Sara csped her hands over her head with a groan, leaning to the left, then the right. She shook her legs out, checking the fit of her armor, making sure all the straps were tight. Beside her, the tip of Evie's rapier traced tiny figure-eights in the air, the feline unconsciously running through her precision drills as her eyes narrowed on the enemy cavalry.

  "I count only three hundred," Evie said.

  "Sounds about right to me," Sara agreed, running her eyes over the approaching cavalry wedge.

  "Too few."

  "Maybe not. We hit the hell out of them on the way to the city. They may not have enough uninjured horses left for every Knight to mount a full charge."

  "Perhaps." Evie dismissed her rapier, pulling her rifle off her back. "Remember your opponent, Master."

  "Can't fucking forget," Sara muttered, drawing her own gun. The fifty pound sb of iron fought her as she brought it to her shoulder, sliding one foot back. "But right now, I'm fighting Knights. Not Graf." She thumbed the hammer back, exhaling slowly.

  Evie gnced at her from the corner of an eye.

  "Happy to be killing those worth killing, then?"

  Sara's only answer was a flicker of a grin and the pull of a trigger.

  The massive gun struck her shoulder with the force of a charging bull, spinning her to one side as she was enveloped in a cloud of sulfurous smoke.

  A horse's chest imploded, armor caving as a pound of lead tore through the animal's ribcage. The rider was thrown free as their steed colpsed, stumbling those that ran behind them, who had to swerve around the animal's corpse. Evie's rifle cracked a moment ter, bullet smming into the throat of a Knight just beside Sara's target. It was difficult to tell if the bullet got through the armor, but judging by the way the Knight dropped their reins and cwed at the spot of impact, she'd bet so.

  Sara held up a clenched fist as she heard the sound of cannon rounds sliding home behind her, signaling them to hold. The four Napoleons tracked the oncoming Knights in silence, while the Ordnance Rifles let fly their shots the moment they were able. It seemed the mage's shield which protected the Knights was only interested in stopping cannonballs, because unlike the bullets which had passed straight through, the tapered iron slugs once more struck some invisible barrier.

  But this time, they struck as one. Two were stopped cold while two dug through, both ripping a Knight and their steed to shreds. The blunt wedge formation was once more disrupted as the others were forced to weave around their falling comrades, slowing their advance.

  Sara slipped her gun away, stepping further onto the corpse-den field. So dense were the Sporaton dead and dying that there was almost nowhere to stand that wasn't soft and warm, difficult to keep her footing on. She forced herself to ignore it all, moving until she stood twenty feet ahead of the cannons, which fnked her on either side. Her hand was still raised in a clenched fist, checking the eagerness she physically felt wafting off the cannoneers.

  Hidden by the bck ste of her helmet, Sara felt a dangerous smile spreading across her face. Fighting Knights. Nobles. The ones in charge. The ones that had driven their subjects to this war, the bastards that had forced innocent men and women to stare down the barrels of her guns.

  Sorry Graf, Sara thought, but I really, really don't give a shit about pacifism.

  Red smoke erupted from her skin as her Champion's runes fshed. Her hand dropped, and the cannons fired.

  ----------------------------

  Ignite

  ----------------------------

  The mage's first spell was desperate. It took the boards of the Magecraft's deck and flung them upward, tossing a dozen of his Marines into the ocean like children's dolls.

  Ignite ripped his sword from the gut of another Sporaton and stepped back, drawing Kate. He clicked the hammer back, moving the cylinder to the next loaded charge, and pulled the trigger.

  The mage's head whipped around a moment before the gun bucked, a shimmer of orange rippling out into the air.

  Three shots left.

  The bullet sunk through the half-formed shield and skittered out the other side at a sharp upward angle, tearing through the flesh of the mage's cheek. He'd been aiming for her chest. She staggered, pressing a free hand to the bloody wound while raising the other, ominous sparks leaping from her twitching fingers.

  Ignite simply stepped forward again, embedding himself amongst the Sporaton Marines. His troops behind him kept the enemies to his left and right occupied, allowing him to focus on the opponents ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mage's bloodied lips curl in a snarl. For a moment he thought the woman would unleash her magics upon her own troops, but at the st moment she pivoted, shooting the energy up into the Waverake.

  A single bolt of white lightning split off from her hand, forks doubling with every foot it traveled. A blinding webwork of energy wrapped itself around the Waverake's stern, shattering the gss of the captain's cabin, digging deep scorch marks into the wood. Smoke and fire burst into being, dozens of small fmes stirred by the sea breeze.

  Ignite ignored it. For a time the chaotic, swirling melee of the boarding action consumed all of his thoughts. He focused on his footwork, on the exact pcement of his stabs. Bodies began to litter the deck around him, bodies that he kicked out of the way as he continued to advance.

  Abruptly, his sword was stopped by the sudden csh of a long naval saber. The first of the enemy's Irregurs had found him. A woman dressed in a full suit of enchanted pte metal, likely some member of the Sporaton nobility. She stood with a wide stance, readied to check Ignite's advance.

  He unched into a flurry of blows, trading jabs as his Marines continued to fight across the ship, slowly growing more separated. The pitching deck grew slick with blood, troops of either party falling as the waves tossed them from side to side. The fight was more and more disjointed, small circles of Tulian Marines forming as the Sporatons drove between the thinner points in their line, surrounding them. Occasionally he heard a pistol spit lead into the enemy, but it was a rare occurrence. The battle was so close-pressed that opportunities for his troops to draw and aim the weapons were precious few.

  A problem that Ignite sympathized with. He was certain he had the advantage of skill over his Irregur opponent, but her armor was too robust, the confines of their fight too close-pressed. He could not draw his gun or take her to the ground to slip a knife through her eye without being exposed to simir treatment from her comrades. Meanwhile, she cked the skill to batter her way past his bde long enough to nd a killing blow.

  And so they continued to strike and jab at one another, no breath to spare for commanding their respective troops. The world had narrowed to a single point for Ignite. One opponent, one objective.

  It was a peculiar sort of relief.

  Without warning, the woman dropped to the deck, a hole where her forehead had been a moment before. Ignite wasted no time in taking advantage, unching into a series of wild swings against those who had been relying upon her protection. The gap their duel had occupied opened further, Tulian Marines filling the empty space his bde carved.

  Only when he was surrounded by friendlies could Ignite spare a gnce backward, searching for whoever had shot the Irregur. He caught only a brief gnce of some sailor whose name he didn't know turning away from the gunwale, a smoking musket leaned against the railing. The woman was already focused on her previous duties, and didn't catch the appreciative salute he sent her.

  Compared to the abject sughter wrought by firearm volleys, the boarding action of sword and steel was an agonizingly gcial affair. His Marines slowly began to push forward, seizing each opportunity they found to unify their lines, but doing so was a matter of precious, precious minutes. Around him Ignite heard the rest of the fleet sputtering with cannonfire, cannonades trying to ward off the marauding Magecraft as best they could without the Waverake's assistance. Occasionally the fgship's cannons would roar, some enemy or another straying too close to the sights of Balon's gunners, but it was not often enough. And all the while, the enemy's mercenaries were closing down on Tulian itself, inching closer to the rape and pilge they no doubt longed for.

  Ignite needed to press the assault. He needed to find and remove the enemy Admiral, crush the Sporaton's ability to coordinate. He needed to do so as soon as possible.

  Ignite took a step back, orienting himself on the chaotic deck. Admiral Scheer was nowhere in sight, which meant he was likely in his cabin below, sheltering from the violence. The stairs down to the Magecraft's interior were towards the stern, off his right side.

  With a flick of his wrist, Ignite brought Kate up, taking one step back. He shot the Sporaton opposite him through the eye, thumbing the hammer back while they dropped, then fired again as the next individual was revealed, then a third time.

  All six shots had been fired, but he now had an open slot to the enemy rear.

  Ignite dashed forward, smashing aside the single lunge a Marine managed to throw at him as he passed.

  The suddenness of his emergence from the melee was disorienting. If he kept his eyes ahead, it seemed like he was on an empty ship, the deck seemingly abandoned. Without the sounds of battle behind him, he could have believed he was touring a ship in port.

  Of course, it was an illusion. Several Sporaton soldiers broke off from the rear of their lines as they caught sight of him, trying to stop his fnking of their comrades.

  Ignite barely paid them any mind, breaking into a sprint down the length of the deck. He knocked one aside with the ft of his palm as he passed, smming his sword into the gut of another. He reached the stairs down to the hold in an instant, staring down into the darkness.

  Ignite lifted Kate out of her holster and set the hammer to half-cock, beginning the borious process of reloading. He marched down into the Magecraft alone, trusting his troops to hold the line.

  ----------------------------

  Sara

  ----------------------------

  Sara found the first thing that sounded worse than canister shot pouring into a crowd of people.

  Canister shot tearing holes in horses.

  Sara was buffeted on either side by passing clouds of lead, hundreds of lead balls filling the air. The Knight's charge was halted as if they had struck a solid wall, steed and rider alike thrown to the dirt. The wailing agonies of the horses were shrill enough to pierce through the din of battle, an earsplitting screech of absolute suffering like nothing Sara had ever heard before. It seemed like nothing could have survived the barrage, that no one save the suicidal would have continued the charge.

  Sara slid her gun into the bag of holding, reaching over her shoulder for her halberd. It was one Hurlish had made for her, slightly shorter than the standard variant, easier to swing. It may not have had enchantments, but it was still the work of a master bcksmith. Sara twisted her hips, taking her stance, the halberd's haft stuck firmly in the dirt. Under her breath, she muttered her first spell of the battle, carefully focusing on the image she wished to conjure.

  "Ta-da."

  An inky darkness shot out across the field, coating everything in bck tar. Every body, every bde of grass, every dropped weapon and bloodied soldier was covered in a yer of absolute darkness.

  Save, of course, for the fallen cavalry. Sara's spell rippled under them, coating the physical objects, but sparing the illusory corpses the mage's spell had created. Of the hundred or so Knights that appeared to have fallen, no more than a handful had their bodies covered by her spell. The rest remained bright and vibrant, proof that they hadn't ever existed at all.

  "Look for the dust!" Sara roared. "If they kick up dust, they're not real! Fourth and eight squadrons, fall in!"

  She had no more time to expin. The two squadrons of soldiers who had fnked the empty space of the cannons shoved away from the lines of spears they had been engaging, sprinting to fill the gaps before the cannons. She stood ahead of their line, Evie resting behind her with rifle raised, the haft of Sara's halberd dug into the dirt to protect them both.

  The first Knight arrived in a blinding fsh, nce lowered, aiming for her face.

  Sara took a deep breath, calming her thoughts.

  "Boom."

  Lightning tore free from her bde with a hideous crackle, leaping in fshing arcs a dozen feet long. This wasn't the single, camitous bolt of her Champion-gifted spellcraft, the spell Amarat had shoved in her head. This was an original creation, a spell formed with Garen's aid. In essence, it was her welding spell tuned to its absolute maximum.

  Her halberd was wreathed in a halo of sputtering, sparking lightning, each filing bolt as thick as her wrist. She lunged, meeting the Knight's nce with her own weapon.

  Lightning leapt up the steel tip of the Knight's nce, curling in a serpentine embrace that rocketed up the weapon to cw its way into his arm, charring the flesh beneath. The wood of the nce detonated in a spray of shrapnel in the same instant the Knight went sck in the saddle, falling limply to one side as his horse reared in a panic.

  Evie's rifle barked, putting the animal down. The Knight fell with it, unmoving.

  Then Sara was in the thick of it all.

  Cavalry rushed past her on either side while her own soldiers thundered into pce, desperate to keep the enemy away from the priceless cannons. The enemy spears, who had suddenly found their opposites fleeing, began a charge forward, pressing the cluster of Tulian troops on either fnk, adding pressure to the Knights that stood before them. Several Knights were thrown from their horses as rifles barked, stumbling to their feet in an instant, resuming their charge on foot, which carried them over the midnight-bck ground. The entire world was a whirl of steel, smoke, and bloody, screaming desperation.

  A Knight suddenly appeared before her, holding a long cavalry mace in a two-handed grip. Through the slits of their helmets, they locked eyes.

  The Knight took two quick steps forward, raising their mace high.

  Sara felt blood rush to her head, the world spinning around her. A delirious smile tore its way up her face.

  Fighting Knights. Fighting the fuckers that started it all. Fighting the ones that she should have been fighting from the start, the ones that actually deserved everything she'd done. Fighting them, beating them, killing them. Taking them to the ground, slipping a knife through their helmet, watching them panic as the tip slid closer and closer to their eye. The world she'd come to know, the people who'd rallied under her. They stood to her left and right, fighting the Knights they couldn't beat.

  But Sara could. And they knew that. They wanted her to kill them. They needed her to do it. There wasn't any complexity left to it, no question of should or shouldn't. There was just the one in front of her, the one behind them, and the one that might follow.

  She wondered how many would come to her. How many would think they could win, how many would think they wouldn't end up dead in the dirt like the others.

  She hoped it would be so, so many.

  Sara lunged forward with a mindless screech, smming the ft of her lightning-sheathed halberd into the Knight's chest. They began to convulse, electricity coursing through their nervous system.

  Sara shoved her halberd past them only to drag it back, hooking their leg out from under them. The Knight fell onto their back, still seizing uncontrolbly.

  Sara dropped with a feral grin, aiming her knee for the front of their facepte. Three hundred pounds of woman and armor sent it crunching through the Knight's head like an egg, ending their spasms in a spsh of brain and bone.

  Evie's massive pistol boomed over Sara's head, tearing a chunk from a Knight that had been trying to strike Sara while she was kneeling. She rose with a roar, throwing her halberd forward, and began to mindlessly fling the weapon about, abandoning any sembnce of strategy in lieu of pure instinct.

  To her distant right, she heard the advancing fnk of her army begin to engage in earnest. Which is to say that they were utterly envoloped, a pinch point that was easy to surround and cut off.

  Then the cannons roared.

  Twelve pound balls of iron tore through the ranks of soldiers, fired not forward at the advancing ranks of ten, but in parallel to the entire Sporaton front line. Hundreds of Sporaton soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder in the path of the cannonball. Through the corner of her eye as she fought, Sara caught sight of red geysers erupting into the air as legs, arms, and entire torsos were tossed like bloody fireworks.

  She threw herself forward yet again as the Knights recoiled, distracted by the wind of cannonballs tearing past them. She smmed her lightning-wrapped halberd into one Knight only to see their armor come alive with light, fighting against the spell, resisting its effects.

  She dropped the halberd and lunged forward, taking them around the throat with both hands.

  The Knight immediately kicked against her, smming their boot into the armor over her stomach. They hit like a mule, taking the air from her lungs, but she didn't let it stop her. She wrenched from side to side, using her superior height to lever them to the ground.

  The Knight hit the dirt with a grunt. They raised both fists and began to rain blows on her helmet, each impact of their gauntleted knuckles ringing with the force of a hammer.

  Sara tightened her grip around their neck and lifted them half a foot off the ground, then smmed them down. The Knight gasped in pain, so Sara lifted them up and did it again. And again. And again and again and again, her fingers clenching, spittle flying. She drove their head into the dirt until a crater formed beneath their skull, her own bck illusion filling in the hole she dug. She watched their eyes flutter, then begin to close.

  Sara reached up with one hand and ripped their visor open, exposing their face. She drew her fist back, grinning wildly, then threw it forward.

  The Knight's face caved like tissue paper under her knuckles. Her gauntlet struck soil. Hot blood seeped through the ptes of her gove, coating her fingers in gore.

  Sara rose to her feet with a scream, spinning to fling the Knight's corpse forward. Smoke was gushing from her skin, red as blood, filling the entire area in a red mist that boiled over the bckened ground. The Knight's corpse struck the back of some other armored bastard as Sara began to lurch forward, drawing her sword.

  She could hear everything. Everything. Every cry, every plead for mercy, from every member of both armies. They were pouring into her skull, hundreds every second. She could hear it all, and there was only way it was going to be stopped.

  She threw herself forward with another bloodcurdling screech, snagging her halberd and spinning into the enemy. The battle had continued to degrade around her, confusion worsening to abject chaos. The Knights tore chunks through the ranks, carving out isnds of halberdiers who had no choice but to huddle together for mutual protection, all their combined efforts required to ward off even a single one of the armored noble bastards. Spells continued to fre to life across the field, each time ripping chunks from the Tulian Army, nearly as violent as the cannons. The entire battle was becoming a rger mirror of the central fight which Sara had involved herself in, the holes created by Knight and Mage filled by a flood of spears. Each squadron was slowly being surrounded, columns of the Royal Army sinking into her ranks like fingers into soft cy.

  But still they fought. The front ranks of halberdiers held firm, barely flinching as muskets fired over their heads. The pace of death was beyond anything Sara had seen before, bodies falling like rain, hundreds dying every minute. Her troops were getting the better of the enemy, inflicting damage well out of proportion of their number, but it was a narrow, narrow margin.

  A margin that continued to twist and spiral. Coded orders rang from the Sporaton army in the form of bugles and horns, minor adjustments that constantly shifted the pace of battle. The enemy reacted near instantly to the smallest changes in Sara's army, diving with a hellish fervor towards the slightest of openings. The massive reserves of the Royal Army were meted out exactly when needed, shoring up any advantages her troops may have managed to cw out from the enemy. The enemy archers held their arrows as they continued to circle around, searching for the exposed rear of Sara's forces so they could loose arrows directly into their spines without fear of hitting friendly troops. The rear lines of her muskets had been forced to turn and fire away from the spears to address this, weakening the pressure they could apply to the bulk of the Sporaton forces.

  And Sara could do nothing about it, because she was trapped in the heat of battle.

  Maybe trapped wasn't the right word, though.

  She was enveloped in the heat of battle. Luxuriating in it. Sunk into the boiling rage of conflict like a sauna, her blood thundering with primal satisfaction.

  The entire battle had devolved into a mess of intermixing soldiers, and nowhere was worse than the center of the lines. Sara had friendly halberdiers that had fought their way to her left and right, maybe a dozen of them, and Evie stood directly behind her, but beyond that, she hadn't a clue what was happening in her immediate surroundings. Even her Blessings couldn't keep her appraised; little was being said beyond grunts of effort and shouted insults. Irregur Knights and peasant spears were intermixed without any sort of cohesion, and it seemed no one was in formal command. Things were only worsened by her ongoing spell coating every inanimate object in formless shades of bck, the illusion darting up the skin of any soldier the moment they died. The ground was so thick with bodies that it was near impossible to keep one's footing, a fact which had slowly forced the rapid melee to devolve into an inelegant shoving match, soldiers on either side paying as much attention to their feet as their enemy.

  But at least she could keep track of whoever was right in front of her. Another horseless Knight had found their way to her, and they were trying to smash their poleaxe through her skull.

  Sara leaned back as the weapon whipped past her face, flinging out her halberd as she did so. Too off bance for a proper swing, the bde skated to the side, smacking the ft into the Knight's armored ribs. They still recoiled from the force of it, a painful reverberation shaking its way up the halberd's haft into her palms.

  Sara found her footing and gripped the halberd tighter, trying to physically shove the Knight over, using the weapon as a lever more than a polearm. The Knight stumbled, but didn't fall, and so she drew back, preparing to stab.

  Then Evie's pistol boomed. The Knight dropped, swallowed by spellbound darkness as their life left them.

  "Reloading!" Evie shouted, barely audible over the din of battle. She ripped a pin from the revolver, which let her slide the entire barrel off. Manually loading six shots into a bckpowder weapon was far too time consuming in the midst of battle, so Hurlish had created a pair of extra cylinders for Evie to keep loaded, allowing her to swap the entire part out. Creating two spare cylinders of pure bcksteel had been ludicrously expensive, consuming the st of Tulian's limited supply of the ensorcelled material, but the time saved was proving worthwhile.

  Sara took a defensive stance while Evie prepared her revolver, menacing the Knights with probing lunges, daring them to come closer. Most recoiled from the crackling lightning of her bde, unwilling to test if their armor's enchantments could stand up to a Champion's spellcraft.

  Instead they focused on the halberdiers to either side of Sara, maces and poleaxes shattering the hafts of halberds with every whistling swing. As individuals, the Tulian troops stood no chance against the Knights. They were so ughably outmatched that it was only the fear of musketry which had kept the Knights from running the troops under at the moment of contact. The crack of bckpowder and whistle of lead kept them at bay, unwilling to find themselves face-to-face with the smoke-wreathed barrel of a rifle.

  Sara felt a sudden shove against her back and nearly swung around to take off the offender's head, checking herself just in time.

  "Out of the way! Out of the fucking way!"

  The powder-choked bronze of a cannon was what had pressed into her back, pushed forward by a team of exhausted-looking cannoneers. The cannon was clearly loaded, its barrel leveled dead-ahead.

  "Out of our goddamn way!" The cannoneer repeated, their voice hoarse from constant yelling.

  Sara obediently moved aside, letting the maw of the cannon protrude from the Tulian lines. She started to move her hands to her ears, but she was too slow.

  Pain nced into her skull as the world went silent. Knights and peasants alike had seen the cannon at the st second and tried to throw themselves to the ground, but it was too te. Canister shot tore through the ranks, as utterly nauseating a sight as Sara had ever seen. A cone of death rippled through the disorganized Sporatons, narrow at the mouth of the cannon, dozens of feet wide at the rear.

  "FUCKING COVER US!" The lead cannoneer yelled shrilly. For someone that had just personally killed dozens, the panic in their voice was entirely out of pce. They threw their entire weight against the cannon's carriage as they desperately tried to retreat, fear written pinly across their face.

  Sara could barely hear the words through the ringing in her ears, but she leapt to the cannon's defense all the same.

  She was just in time. A midnight-bck column the size of a telephone pole burst out of nowhere, diving for the cannon.

  Instead of the invaluable Napoleon, it struck Sara in the center of her bcksteel breastpte. She was deafened yet again by a cataclysmic screech, the impact throwing her to the ground as if she'd been struck by a truck.

  Her head hit the dirt with a muffled thud. Darkness flickered at the edges of her vision, threatening to crawl inward. She couldn't get her lungs to draw breath.

  Knight and peasant alike lunged forward in a desperate rush to swarm over her, recognizing the opportunity for what it was. She tried to get her legs moving, but they dragged sluggishly across the soil, taking her nowhere.

  Then Evie was standing above her, feet straddling Sara's hips, rapier a blur, pistol held against her side.

  A Knight that had been swinging for Sara's stomach dropped like a discarded doll, blood seeping from the hole Evie had pierced through their eye. Two peasants fell next, throats gushing blood, and then another Knight joined them, their head parted like a flower's petal by the roar of Evie's massive revolver.

  Sara's lungs finally seized, drawing a deep gulp of air. She was wracked by a violent cough as the darkness receded, spittle coating the inside of her helmet. She rolled onto her side, shoving herself up.

  Evie stepped away, letting Sara stand. She took a moment to search the ground for her halberd, only to find it having been somehow knocked away in the chaos, a dozen feet beyond the safety of the Tulian line.

  Sara drew her sword instead, flicking it out to its full length, and threw herself back into the fight.

  ----------------------------

  Ignite

  ----------------------------

  The hold of the Magecraft was eerily empty. Though lit by crystals, having come down from the sparkling daylight of the noon sun, Ignite could barely see a thing. He took several steps past the stairs, sword in hand, waiting to see if any Sporatons would follow him down from the main deck.

  When none came, he sheathed his spatha, repcing it in his hand with Kate.

  The revolver was not an easy thing to reload. While the process may have been simir on the face to a musket, with one loading powder, wadding, then ball, it was far more tedious. A single notch taken out of the frame was the only pce in which he could access the cylinder, which meant he had to meticulously pour powder down the narrow hole, followed by shoving the wadding in with a thumb, before finally pcing the ball loosely on top. Unlike the army's rifles, Kate still used round balls, and so the lead projectiles were oversized. He had to use a lever under the barrel to physically ram them home, shaving metal from the sides to ensure a fit tight enough to engage the rifling.

  Doing so took quite some time, but the nerve-wracking affair was necessary. To his left was the stairs to the main deck, from which a horde of Sporaton soldiers may at any moment emerge, while to the right stood the locked cabin of the enemy Admiral, within which undoubtedly waited the most elite of the enemy Irregurs. The Sporatons were not the sort to allow a commander to fend for themselves. His eyes kept flicking between the two vectors of attack, ready to drop everything and defend himself at a moment's notice.

  Thankfully, Ignite finished reloading Kate without interruption, for which he breathed a sigh of relief. He briefly considered taking a further moment to clean the revolver, which was already filthy with powder soot, but discarded the thought. His troops were fighting for their lives up above, and every moment spent dawdling was another potential casualty.

  With this in mind, Ignite wasted no time walking up to the locked cabin, eying the lock. He could see no sign of enchantment, and so he leaned back, lifted his boot, and smashed it open.

  The door flew back to crack against the far wall, announcing his entrance with a boom. He immediately took a shooting stance, pistol gripped in both hands, ready for the enemy to rush him.

  What greeted him was more disorienting than any bewitching spell.

  A foppish man, dressed in piles of silks as luxurious as they were garish, sat behind a low desk, across which was scattered half-empty bottles of wine. Maps and figures crowded the desk, showing some signs of prior organization before sloshes of rich wine had stained them to uselessness. The man was resting his head in a hand, a rge feather-spotted hat pulled low over his brow, so oversized that its brim dipped into the massive winegss that he held in his other hand, which was slowly tilting the ruby liquid back and forth. Behind and to the side of the man stood one of the masked cultists that Ignite heard so much about, but they barely registered next to the bizarre sight.

  The man looked up from his wine after far too long a moment, bleary eyes squinting at Ignite. Then his lips split in a drunken grin, far too gleeful for the circumstances.

  "Ah, the Lost Sergeant finds me at st!"

  For a moment, Ignite didn't understand the man's words. It had been so long since he had heard spoken Carrion that it briefly seemed more foreign to him than any Continental nguage.

  "Magecraft Captain Vanilflower?" Ignite asked incredulously.

  The Carrion Captain put a finger to his lips, making a shushing noise.

  "Now-now, that's not me, is it?" He giggled. "Not anymore, anyway. I'm Mister Admiral Scheer, don't you know? That's what they call me these days."

  Ignite could not believe what he was seeing. A Carrion Captain– a Carrion Magecraft Captain– in command of a foreign vessel. No, not even that. A foreign fleet. It was a notion so absurd he had no words for it. An impossibility.

  "Expin yourself!" Ignite barked, the Carrion words rolling off his tongue with greater ease every passing moment. "Is Tulian unknowingly at war with the Carrion Navy? What purpose does your presence serve?"

  Vanilflower all but dropped his wine onto his desk, adding to the canvas of stains. The cultist began to step forward, hands twitching within their robes, and Ignite swung Kate towards them just before Vanilflower thumped a hand into their stomach to halt them, moving with the casualness of old friends. Judging by the cultist's reaction, this was a behavior borne of drunkenness, not true familiarity.

  "Down, boy," Vanilflower slurred. "The Lost Sergeant here is our guest right now."

  Is he mad? Ignite wondered. What could possibly expin this? Despite the absurdity of the situation, the cultist moved no further, holding their tongue. Ignite kept Kate trained on the cultist's head as Vanilflower cleared his throat several times, then hiccuped.

  "As I was saying, Sergenté Parables. You're welcome here aboard, of course. Polite hospitality and such, yes?"

  "Expin yourself!" Ignite barked again. "Are you a Captain of the Carrion Navy, or are you a subject of Sporatos?"

  "If I say the second one you'll shoot me," Vanilflower said, raising a finger. "So why would I say that?"

  Ignite could not believe his ears. This was beyond anything he had been ready for. Beyond any absurdity he had ever envisioned.

  "Have you truly betrayed our people?" Ignite asked. "You were an honored diplomat, Vanilflower. A Magecraft Captain, an honor to our people. What have you done?"

  "Betrayed my people?" Vanilflower asked, as if the question was rhetorical. "Not all that different from you, hm? Working for an enemy Navy, giving away our secrets like sweets to children? Isn't that what you're here for, too? Or, ah, why you're here, I mean?"

  The accusation, no matter how inebriated a tongue it came from, struck dangerously close to home. Ignite's heart pounded in his chest, and he was not sure if the itch he felt was urging him to pull the trigger, flee the room, or simply pretend he had never heard Vanilflower speak.

  "How did you come to this?" Ignite asked instead. "What role have you pyed in this war? Are you acting with the Admiralty's permission?"

  "Oh, no," Vanilflower slurred, grasping for his wine gss once more. He took a deep drink, then dropped it off the side of the desk, where it joined a pile of simirly discarded gsses. "I was here to be an observer, of course. Provide some lip-service advice in exchange for getting a front row seat to the operations of the Sporaton Navy, the usual sort. The Admiralty would be furious if they found out what I've done, of course. But they won't. After all, I'll be dead at her hands."

  Ignite's eyes narrowed. He kept Kate trained on the cultist, but he watched the disgraced Captain through the corner of his eyes.

  "Who do you mean by her, Vanilflower?" Ignite asked. He knew exactly who the man referred to, but wanted to hear it from his lips.

  "The Tyrant of the Waves, of course," Vanilflower hiccuped. "The Dead Dream's Necromancer. The Scourge of the Jungle Shores, she of the Empty Eyes and Bck Hull." He leaned forward on his desk, a bubble of sobriety rising for the brief moment he locked eyes with Ignite. Shadows darkened his cheeks, eyes glittering with crazed fear. "Captain Nora O'Gallison. Sinti's successor, trained by his hand, aiming for the Great Locks once more. Surely you know that by now. What she'll do when she's free of the Champion's yoke. She's too great for these paltry waters, and she does not care what will slither through the holes she bores in the ancient pacts. She wants to open the seas, Ignite Parables."

  Sweat slicked Ignite's palm. He shifted his grip on Kate, ensuring he had a firm grasp.

  "You don't know that. She's never stated anything of the sort, in public or private."

  The solemnity that had consumed Vanilflower vanished as quickly as it had arrived. He leaned back in his chair, fumbling beneath his desk for yet another wine gss.

  "Ah, well. I'm sure you'll find out soon enough. Won't matter for me, though. To be honest, I'm surprised I haven't been cut apart by one of those cannonballs already. Wish she'd get on with it. Better dead than living dishonored, after all."

  Ignite struggled to comprehend what he was hearing. A Magecraft Captain, the peerless elite of the Carrion Navy, serving the Sporatons like a whipped dog. And why? Because he feared a single woman? It was a disgrace that outshone Ignite's own shame as the sun did the stars. Whether the man had caved to his fear of Nora or the threats of the Sporatons, it did not matter. Ignite's faith in honor had been beaten and battered by the months since his Magecraft had sunk, but even the crumbled remains of that once-mighty monolith vibrated with indignation. For Vanilflower to aid a foreign kingdom without the Admiralty's endorsement was inexcusable in and of itself. But to do so when said kingdom was at war with Tulian, a nation nominally allied to the Carrion Navy– by agreements that Vanilflower had personally negotiated–

  Ignite's anger fred so brightly it made his head spin. It was unfathomable. Disgusting. There may exist greater betrayals, worse examples of cowardice, but they were very, very few.

  And so it was that Ignite found himself consumed by a stark realization.

  Here he stood before two individuals guilty of utterly contemptible crimes. Vanilflower, who had betrayed Ignite's native people on a level that he did not think all of their history could find a precedent for. And the cultist, whose foul influence had stirred the entire war that a once-peaceful Tulian had been forced into.

  Ignite was a man of two homes. Born in a Carrion colony, raised aboard the decks of his people's Navy, his life had been spent fighting for the betterment of his people. Then he had been rescued by the Champion of Amarat, whose aspirations were so righteous he never would have believed they were possible if he had not met the woman.

  And both those homes he had betrayed. He had abandoned his Magecraft, refusing to take its secrets to the bottom with the rest of the crew. True, he had never spoken a word of what he knew of the vessel's enchantments, but that hardly mattered. Should word get out that he had such knowledge, there were means to extract it whether he wanted it or not.

  And then, when he had tried to find honor once more under the Tulian Republic, he had failed. He had sheltered a spy. Bedded her, coddled her, fed her information. That the Champion had pardoned him did not matter. The crime was his, and nothing could take it from him.

  And now he stood before an opportunity to right his life's greatest wrongs. He could shoot Vanilflower on the spot, avenging the Carrion Navy's honor. He could throw himself against the cultist, suffer their spells for as long as it took to bleed them dry.

  He was no fool. He knew he would die. The cultist's spells would rip him limb from limb, scatter his blood across the cabin like a toddler pying with paint. But it was possible, just barely, that he could reach them first. That he could slip his sword into their ribs, release a shot from within the bounds of their shield. In a single, sweeping moment, Ignite could atone for all the wrongs he had rendered unto his peoples.

  Vanilflower stared at him silently, waiting to see what would happen. The man had clearly been consumed by his fatalism. The cultist, simirly, waited impassively, empty of any visible concern.

  As his finger began to tug at the trigger, muscles tensing, his mind abruptly rebelled.

  He looked at the engraved cylinder of Kate, etched with the scene of an elegant naval battle. Made for him by the Champion's partners, a gift no other in all the world had been entrusted with. Unbidden, the words of Evie's letter swam up to the front of his mind.

  It is of the utmost importance that you do not, under any circumstances, allow this weapon to fall into enemy possession. However, unlike the Carrion Navy, I will give you one order to supersede this:

  Preventing the revolver from falling into enemy hands is not worth your life. You, Ignite, whether you believe it or not, are an asset worth cultivating.

  Ignite threw himself back through the door, diving to one side.

  A bde of dark gss ripped through the space he had just occupied, accompanied by a hellish scream born of foul magic. Ignite stood and leveled Kate at the wall and fired all six shots rapidly as he was able, trying to guess where the Cultist had been standing. The lead easily pierced the thin wood, but he couldn't tell if he struck anything.

  Ignite turned and threw himself up the stairs, running for the safety of his troops.

  To his surprise, he realized that he still had a life left that he wished to live.

  ----------------------------

  King Sporatos

  ----------------------------

  The King of Sporatos looked down on the field of battle, his lips pressed into a grim line. He stood beneath an illusion on the hill, invisible to the enemy's prying eyes. To keep a mage in reserve just for his protection was a great irritation, but Graf had been insistent. After seeing what the newest Champion-spawned weapons were capable of, he had begrudgingly ceded the point in Graf's favor, if only to himself. He would never state as much aloud.

  What he could see through the maelstrom of smoke was a tale of unending destruction. Two armies bleeding one another to the ragged st. The stratagems Graf had devised were certainly remarkable, and notably successful during the opening stages of the battle, but it was not enough. What little bravery the insipid peasantry once possessed was in tatters, their will to fight abandoned in favor of simple-minded, animalistic self-preservation. The few breakthroughs they had managed in the Tulian line were not being exploited, the dulrds too cowed by the fsh of fire to dare step forward and make themselves a target. Only his Knights continued to press the assault, and even they did so sparingly, wary of suffering the concentrated fire of a musket volley.

  "We must retreat," Graf said yet again, more insistently than the st time.

  "I will not."

  "The battle is lost, My Lord," Graf said. It was the fifth time in as many minutes that he had said such a thing, and King Sporatos had no more fondness for the sentiment than he had the first time. "If we withdraw now, we will do so in good order, rather than in a rout. Once we are free of their artillery, they will not pursue."

  "And the war will be lost," the King snapped.

  "It already is," Graf replied. His words were spoken without heat, without the slightest hint of disrespect. Somehow, that stoked the King's ire even higher. That the mercenary seemed to view their loss as an inevitability was profoundly insulting in a way the King found difficult to describe. Graf continued on in this fashion, outlining his argument for cowardice. "Our momentum is spent, our troops exhausted. Even if the enemy should run and break, we would require time to convalesce, time that will allow them to reform their forces within their capital. The casualties we have suffered already renders the city impenetrable. Even if we were not facing down their firearms, we could not take the walls."

  "Our objective goes beyond the city," the King growled. "We must capture the Champion, return her to the Kingdom. To leave such a powerful element threatening our borders is beyond unacceptable."

  "I understand, My Lord. And while you may indeed capture her some day, it is not this day. She is surrounded by troops of fanatic loyalty, wielding weapons we cannot hope to answer. The battle is lost."

  King Sporatos whirled on Graf, scowling furiously. "I will hear no more of this talk! You may have been pced in command of this army, mercenary, but you will still do as your King commands! You will next speak of defeat when the enemy's swords are at our throats, and not a moment sooner!"

  Graf raised one eyebrow.

  "Or what?"

  King Sporatos's eyes widened. His jaw worked back and forth, teeth grinding. His next words came out in a low, lethal hiss.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I said, 'or what?'" The mercenary repeated, expressionless as ever. "What will you do? I am here to advise, Your Excellence. My advice is that the battle is lost, and all that remains for your people is suffering."

  "You dare–"

  Graf's palm fell onto the pommel of his sword, finger lightly resting against the leather grip.

  "I do, My Liege. I hereby refuse command of this army."

  King Sporatos lost himself. Blood seemed to seep into his very vision, coating the world in red. He stepped forward, reaching for his sword, physically trembling with rage.

  Graf's fingers tightened, the barest edge of bde emerging from his sheath.

  There was a great rush of air, wind billowing with the force of a typhoon. The illusion that had been hiding their command post failed as the King's mage-advisor appeared before Graf, hands raised. A series of fshes pained the King's eyes as shield after shield was summoned around the mercenary, dozens of interwoven yers seeking to contain him. The ground around the man was crushed ft as gss, acrid smoke rising as the intense pressure within evaporated every bde of grass.

  "You speak to your King, Graf Urs" the mage hissed. Their every limb was trembling with the effort of maintaining their spells. "Control yourself."

  Graf scoffed, gncing curiously at the energies which enveloped him.

  "I ask again, cultist. Or what?"

  "I will kill you."

  The old man ughed, a wheezing, scratchy sound. "I'm sure you will, child. Now," Graf waved at the shields, "get rid of this nonsense. I have a retreat to prepare for."

  For a brief moment, the King thought his mage-advisor might actually stand up to the mercenary. That he would try to contain Graf Urs.

  Then the trembling stopped, and the shields fell. Graf stepped away without further comment, moving towards the cluster of Night's Eye which occupied a nearby command post.

  The King watched him go in silence, stewing in impotent rage. The mage-advisor stood beside him, hands returned to the folds of their sleeves. Despite the featureless mask hiding their expression, King Sporatos felt certain the mage was equally enraged.

  The King spent a minute or more taking level breaths, trying to contain the thundering of his pulse. The sounds of battle rumbled behind him, the low bass of cannons and muskets a distressingly familiar tone. He did not allow himself to dwell, however. He focused on controlling his temper, bringing himself back to reason.

  "He may be correct," the King eventually said. The mage turned to him, awaiting further comment. King Sporatos sighed, putting his back to Graf, watching the distant battle unfold. "It is unlikely we will win this battle. Alternatives must be considered."

  "Your rewards are contingent upon the capture of the Champion, King Sporatos," the mage reminded him. "We care nothing for the city or your territory."

  "Yes, yes, as I'm well aware," the King said, waving half-heartedly. "But Graf was chosen for a reason. Insubordinate though he may have become, he is very rarely wrong. Your prize will have to wait for another day."

  "Then so, too, shall your ascension."

  The King's forced neutral expression grew a touch more brittle.

  "Keep dangling such things before me, and I may lose interest in your bait. For one who speaks so endlessly of hierarchy, you often fail to know your pce. Regardless. If we are to gain any conciliation for this failure, it will have to be sought rapidly." The King eyed the mage-advisor without turning his head, looking down on the slight figure. "You have reviewed the information on Tulian's infrastructure, yes?"

  The mage-advisor did not dignify this with a response. King Sporatos continued on, unperturbed.

  "Good. I have received word that it is likely our mercenaries will breach Tulian's harbor within a few short hours. While a far cry from total victory, their attempts represent an opportunity. One I will pursue."

  "You wish to obtain what knowledge you can of the enemy's firearms, I presume?"

  King Sporatos looked away from the mage. To the battle beyond, where bodies y piled.

  "No," he stated pinly. "I wish to kill anyone who has the slightest knowledge of their construction. You are to find Emeric and provide him a summary of what information you have on the enemy's industry. He will depart at once. Then, if you so choose, you may join the battle yourself. Perhaps your spells are capable of subduing the Champion where others have failed."

  The mage-advisor nodded graciously, their posture lightening, as if a smile was hidden behind their mask.

  "As you wish, Your Excellency. It should not take long."