Stories about the creatures spread. Within a week, it was known throughout the region that General Devorah Kempenny was not only kicking Loreamer troops out of her aunt’s province, but also killing monsters. Some rumors had Royal Loreamer summoning monsters and unleashing them upon his enemies; some had Governor Kempenny summoning the monsters and loosing them on her own people; some said the end times were fast approaching.

Despite the rumors, Devorah’s troops kept high morale even though soldiers were lost at every encounter with bandit and monster. The soldiers said that with General Kempenny they couldn’t lose. They said fewer were lost than would have been under an inferior leader. And with every town they liberated of corrupt clerics or bullying Loreamer soldiers, Devorah’s ranks swelled so she had to send most volunteers south to the Governor’s fortress. By last count, the Kempenny army had grown to outstrip the forces of any other province but Loreamer.

• • •

The town of Troutmoth huddled on the edge of the Grand River as through the river were a blanket. From reports, Devorah knew Troutmoth subsisted on fishing and ferry tolls. It was a small town, of no use to any but those who lived there, and yet Loreamer guards had occupied it as they had every border town in Kempenny.

In the predawn light, a haze of river fog shrouded the town and, for a moment, Devorah could pretend today was just another sleepy day for the townsfolk.

She sighed.

“Sir, we’re being approached.”

Devorah shook off the reverie. Three men on horseback, clad in grey uniforms, rode toward them.

“Archers ready,” Devorah said.

Corporal Vickers saluted and relayed the command.

But when they were within shouting distance, one dismounted, waved a folded, yellow paper over his head, and placed it on the ground. Then he and his fellows rode downriver.

Devorah looked at Corporal Vickers. “That was unexpected.”

“Stay here, General. I’ll fetch it.”

Devorah bit her tongue on a retort. Corporal Vickers insisted it was his job to protect her, and technically he was right, but it needled her. He returned with the paper and handed it over. It was low quality, dyed pale yellow, but sealed in purple wax with the symbol of the albatross, device of House Loreamer.

I understand you’ll be in Troutmoth this morning. I would like to discuss peace with you. Meet me in the inn’s common room at noon.

The handwriting was hasty. There was no signature. Devorah passed the paper to Corporal Vickers.

“It’s a trap,” Corporal Vickers said.

Devorah chuckled. “Thank you, Admiral Akbar.”

“What?”

Devorah shook her head. “Never mind.”

Who would both know she was going to be in Troutmoth this morning and would use the purple albatross? If nothing else, Devorah wanted to find out.

“Corporal, secure the village. I want lookouts and archers on the rooftops. Help those who want to evacuate. I’ll be at the inn.”

• • •

Devorah sat at a table in the common room, reading a well-worn copy of Sky Wars the innkeeper had loaned her. It was an old favorite. She had a copy on the bookshelf in the room in her mind, but it was imprudent to wait in the mindspace with someone who used the Loreamer seal on their way. She wondered who it would be. Surely the Royal himself wouldn’t come and not likely the Consort either. The Heir perhaps? She hoped so. She hoped it was someone in the royal family rather than an emissary or a pretender. There were so many questions she had for someone in the royal family, chief among them: why was I abandoned to Governor Erin Kempenny?

At her side sat Corporal Vickers, and filling the common room was a platoon of soldiers chosen by Corporal Vickers. Devorah had suggested to the innkeeper he might like to take himself and his family somewhere safe until the meeting had finished, but the innkeeper had proclaimed himself a loyal Kempenny man and stayed to serve Devorah’s troops.

“I don’t like this, sir.”

“I’m aware, Corporal. You’ve said as much three times in the last hour.” Devorah kept her gaze on the book.

Corporal Vickers stood and paced the length of the common room. Devorah understood his concern, but they had taken precautions. With archers on rooftops they’d have plenty of warning should this be an attack, and if it turned out to be an assassination, the assassin would find himself in a room of readied soldiers, not to mention Devorah.

Devorah felt a tingle of power tickle up her spine and spread across her shoulders. It was a foreign power. It didn’t smell of dry paper or dusty graves, but of rain on the edge of the horizon. Devorah looked at the door to the street, and for a moment it vibrated and blurred. In the next, two people stood in the common room, a man who looked everywhere at once, and a tall, striking, silver-haired woman who surveyed the room with assumed authority. Devorah disliked her immediately.

The man wore a grey soldier’s uniform, the woman a grey jacket over a white shirt and grey skirt. Both bore the purple albatross of House Loreamer.

God’s Wounds, where did they come from?

Is that the Heir? They say she’s got silver hair.

She looks like the General.

The soldiers started at the duo’s sudden appearance, some half rising, hands on weapons, but Devorah kept her seat. She searched the murmur of secret thoughts bubbling in the room for those of the newcomers, but couldn’t find them. Like Vahramp, they were unreadable.

The woman approached and the man, surely her bodyguard, followed. The woman held her hand out to Devorah.

Devorah stood and those soldiers not already standing followed suit. She took the woman’s hand.

“My name is Isabel Loreamer, Heir of Khulanty.”

“Devorah Kempenny, General of Kempenny Province.”

The woman smiled. “It’s true then. Well met, cousin.”

Cousin? Not sister?

Could it be the Heir didn’t know the true nature of their relationship? Could it be the Governor had lied to her? Devorah wanted to ask, but that wasn’t a conversation she was prepared to have with an audience.

Heir Loreamer sat without being invited. Her bodyguard stood behind her.

Devorah sat and the soldiers sat, but Corporal Vickers remained standing, determined not to be outdone.

“General Kempenny, I asked you to meet with me because the council is prepared to go to war with Kempenny Province. Your Governor’s raids and missives demand it. I, however, would prefer to avoid it.”

“Good,” said Devorah. “All we want is Kempenny Province free to govern itself. Pull the Loreamer soldiers out of Kempenny and all hostilities on our end will stop.”

“It’s not that easy, Devorah”

“Sure it is. I’ve been ousting Loreamer soldiers for the past two months.”

The Kempenny soldiers laughed appreciatively, and Devorah felt she’d scored a point in a verbal game of chess. She smiled.

Heir Loreamer shook her head. “Governor Kempenny’s letters promise war. She’s provided no terms under which it can be avoided. Further, some on the councils don’t want to give up having soldiers in Kempenny. Your mines and foundries are too important.”

“Don’t you mean they’re too profitable?”

“My point precisely. Tell me, General Kempenny, how much influence do you have with the Governor?”

Rumors said the Heir was highly powered. It seemed as likely as not that she was a telepath, so it would do no good to lie to her. And if she wasn’t a telepath, there was little to be gained from lying anyway.

“Not a lot.” She glanced around the room, at the soldiers she had trusted to surround her during this meeting. “In fact, I’m not sure she can be reasoned away from this conflict. But I command the army. How much influence do you have with the council?”

Heir Isabel smiled and shook her had. “Not a lot. But with my father, I have significant influence. And before the council can go to war, House Loreamer would have to fund it.”

“So, between us, we could, if not stop the war, delay it significantly.”

“All we have to do is trust each other.” Isabel smiled and extended her hand again.

For as long as she could remember, Devorah had been told about the wickedness of the royals of House Loreamer. She understood there was some personal animosity between Loreamer and Kempenny, but the Heir at least, though she radiated an irritatingly superior attitude, was reasonable.

Devorah laughed. “I trust my fellow soldiers and no one else, but for this, I’m willing to try.”

She took the Heir’s hand and shook firmly.

“Right then. I’ll delay the funds, you delay the Governor. I’ll be in contact as soon as I can get a meeting together.”

She stood and Devorah followed.

“I have to get going. I don’t want them noticing I’m gone.”

“Before you go,” said Devorah. There were so many other things to discuss, from her parentage to the undead to whether or not this had any chance of success.

“Why did Loreamer troops invade Kempenny to begin with?”

“Invade?” The Heir shook her head. “Erin Kempenny disappeared for three years. Or so I’m told. I was a baby. But all reports say the Kempenny magistrates called on House Loreamer for assistance, and when the Governor reappeared, she declared them traitors and stripped them of their titles.

“I see.” Devorah sat carefully, trying not to show her surprise.

Isabel turned to leave, her bodyguard following while looking everywhere at once. And when they reached the door, Devorah felt a tingle of power—the hint of rain on the horizon.

When the Heir put her hand on the door, Devorah’s vision went blurry and a moment of pressure made her ears pop. And they were gone.

Devorah took several moments to look around the room, making sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks, and several more to search for that intangible shield. The Heir and her bodyguard were, indeed, gone.

“Well,” said Devorah. She looked around at her assembled soldiers.

They were at least as stunned as she. They hardly believed that they’d just seen the Royal Heir and not been arrested, that they’d been witness to a peace conference, however brief, or that the Heir looked so much like the General.

“Well,” she said again, everything unasked swirling about her thoughts. “I could use a glass of wine.”

• • •

She dreamt of slithering whispers and the smell of death and the hissing song of the book. She dreamt of a shriveled corpse unfoldeding until it stood before her, whole and beautiful and deadly—Frederick Vahramp. Behind him, a second sound caught her attention, the sound of dry, shuffling feet, the sound of hungry moans, the sound of emaciated minions rising to Vahramp’s bidding.

• • •

Devorah lurked in the shadows, watching the people gathered around a small campfire at sunset. In particular she watched Sister Clarice. Devorah had specifically not forbidden religious services among her soldiers. However, her personal views were well known, so those who observed religious rituals felt they had to be unobtrusive.

“Saint Zyta tells us 'God is a guiding light on the path to righteousness. Like walking through the woods on a moonless night with only a lamp. You can’t see very far in front of you, but eventually you’ll get through.'”

Her audience chuckled, and Devorah could hear their rueful thoughts:

Are we on a righteous path?

Is Kempenny’s pride worth peace in Khulanty?

The General does her best, doesn’t she?

“So be it truth.” The small congregation echoed her words. “Good night, my friends. We’ll meet again tomorrow.”

Devorah waited for the crowd to disperse, for Sister Clarice to bank her fire, before she approached on silent feet, not giving the sister warning of her arrival. When she did see Devorah, Sister Clarice jumped and yelled, putting a hand to her heart.

“Nice sermon, Sister.”

Sister Clarice smoothed at the bodice of her dress. “I didn’t realize you were listening, General.”

“Would you have changed your sermon if you had?”

“No.”

Devorah sensed no dishonesty in the woman, and she smiled. “I need your help.”

Sister Clarice shook her head. “You need God’s help. I am but His instrument.”

Devorah couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Fine. I need God’s help, whichever of you can identify what powers I have.”

“I’m a healer, General. I don’t have the power to—“

“You did it before. You identified me as a necromancer and you were right.”

Sister Clarice sighed. She sat and motioned Devorah to do the same. The small camp chairs were notoriously unsteady, but Devorah sat carefully and managed not to collapse it.

“I recognized your… power because it deals with the body, as does healing.”

“So healing is similar to necromancy,” Devorah said.

Sister Clarice shuddered. “Certainly not.” Devorah could hear the lie in her mind. “But I’ve given some thought to what you said…”

Devorah could hear how difficult it was for the sister to consider her holy power might be related to the unhallowed power of necromancy. She put up her hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“I’m not here to attack your faith, Sister, not today.”

Sister Clarice smiled ruefully.

“I just need your help. The High Temple has been known to study the nature of powers. Surely you know more than I do.”

Devorah let the silence between them grow while the sister gave it some thought.

She’s a necromancer, a dealer in death magic; the Scriptures say she should be put to death. But she’s a good leader, treats her people well, she even negotiated peace with the Heir…

“I’ve heard… things about you General. I’ve heard you became a master of weapons in just a few weeks, that sometimes the shadows cling to you, that you can read people’s thoughts. How much of this is true?”

“All of it.”

Sister Clarice’s eyes widened. “An uncommon number of powers.”

“It’s rumored the Heir has several powers.”

“It is. And to have two people with such power at once is unprecedented outside the Holy Scriptures.” It portends great and terrible events.

Devorah shrugged, trying to ignore the sister’s thoughts. “So, these definitely are powers then?”

“There are stories of shadowmages in the Scriptures, and also weapons masters. Neither is well thought of. Telepaths are also common in the Scriptures.”

Devorah thought of Vahramp’s ability to hide his thoughts from her, and of the Heir and her bodyguard. “Are there stories of those who can block another’s powers?”

“Yes. Telepaths often have a mental shield to defend against other telepaths.”

It was nice to have her conclusions confirmed, but she sought something more—a way to learn the uses of her powers, the limits of her powers, to discover if she had more than she knew of.

“Sister, these powers come to me naturally, but I worry. Particularly with the necromancy.” Devorah closed her eyes and allowed her fear of her dreams to show in her expression, the set of her shoulders, the shakiness of her breath. “I need to know if there’s a way to control them.”

“I’m afraid I’m not a scholar of powers. If you were to go to the High Temple—”

“They’d lock me away if I went there,” Devorah said, and Sister Clarice nodded.

“But they could help you control it. They might even be able to remove it from you.”

The idea made Devorah feel ill. “Well, thank you, Sister,” she said, thinking the conversation had proved unhelpful. She stood and Sister Clarice stood with her.

“General, there’s a danger in use of powers. Your power is a part of yourself. It’s like that bowl of water, you remember? If you drain the whole bowl, you’ve drained yourself. It could kill you.”

• • •

A wiry scout who used to be a horse thief, learned of a group of marauders hiding out in woods at a bend in the Grand River marking the northernmost part of Kempenny province.

“From what I’m hearing, Miss General, it’s one of the last group of holdouts,” she told them.

Devorah’s force was small, fifty soldiers and twenty support staff, but such a force was still too big to sneak through the woods efficiently so late in the day, so Devorah had selected a small reconnaissance force to assess the lay of the land. They crept through the woods as evening shadows lengthened, skinny shadows from skinny trees making bars of light and dark on the forest floor.

Rory walked nearby, and Devorah was impressed with how much he had improved as a soldier in the last months. True, his improvement was nothing compared to hers, but that was an unfair comparison. When she’d recommended his promotion to corporal, it had been for selfish reasons, to have a friendly face among those who reported to her on this mission, but he had grown into the role.

He caught her looking at him and gave a small smile and quick salute.

“General!”

Devorah was caught off guard by the shout, it had come suddenly, but Devorah knew the reason. She could see the carnage the scout was trying to forget. In a matter of moments, Devorah crested a small rise; in the vale below was what had once been a bandit camp, now a sloppy charnel house a day old at least. Flys buzzed incessantly. The smell alone was enough to empty many soldiers’ stomachs.

Minutes passed. The sun finished setting. The vale was lit by the moon.

She caught sense of the creatures too late.

The song screamed in her mind.

Undead, emaciated creatures in the shape of people, clad in tatters, eyes glowing dull red, hunger for blood so strong it drove Devorah to her knees, sprang upon them. The screams of her soldiers echoed off the wood. A knot of tension throbbed at the back of her neck in time to the song. She could feel them as though each claw tipped finger, each elongated tongue, each needle-sharp canine were hers as they slashed, licked, and punctured the living and fed on their blood. She knew their strength, their speed, their hunger.

In a moment, half her soldiers were dead. She could feel them dying around her. She knew the moment each body ceased to sustain life and became only a mass of meat, bones, and fluid. The black-clad book leapt to mind, the mad scribblings of Dr. Milton scrolled before her eyes, and the earthy, musty, dry power of death leapt to her tingling fingertips as easy as turning the page of a favorite book.

She drank deeply of the power, and the power was drawn to her slain soldiers. She let it go to them. Before the dead hit the ground, they rose again, stronger in death then ever they had been in life, and at her direction, they struck at the blood-feeding creatures, throwing them back, breaking limbs and dislocating joints. As with the blood-feeders, she could feel each blow, but with her undead soldiers she could guide their actions.

Thrust.

She remembered the duel with the creature in the farmer’s house and how a single, strong thrust to the chest had been the only thing to penetrate the creature’s rock-like skin. And in a coordinated move, her undead soldiers thrust their weapons at the blood-feeders. Not every thrust struck down an enemy, some of the newly undead were unarmed, some missed their targets, some caught their targets at the wrong angle. But enough struck home that half the enemy was rendered inert. Devorah knew they weren’t finished, fire was required, but it was a strong counterstroke.

In the chaos, Devorah had unconsciously drawn her weapons and she used them now, a rapier in one hand, dirk in the other. She leapt through the darkness and felt it carry her, like water through a pipe, ink in a pen, driving her weapons into the hearts of the blood-feeders, and they dropped, inert for the moment.

“Torches!” she called.

Her soldiers were scattered and terrified, but they hurried to obey. They trusted her to get them through this. More than half were dead, but they trusted her. Devorah set her undead soldiers to helping with the torches even as she continued to whirl through the darkness, felling the creatures. The moment one of her own fell, she drew on her power, pulled it back up. Soon, fires sprung up in the wood as the blood-feeding undead were reduced to ash.

She sensed the presence of Frederick Vahramp a moment before he spoke. “Bitch. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you interfering with me again.”

Devorah spun to face Vahramp, but he was faster, and his blow sent her flying between the trees until she struck one with bruising impact.

He snuck up on me again. I’ve got to pay better attention.

Devorah closed her eyes, relying on the darkness to reveal the world around her.

“After all, I have you to thank for this new body, these new powers. I should have expected you’d notice eventually.” He sprang at her and she rolled away just in time to avoid his supernaturally strong blow. He stood and laughed.

“I’m so much faster, so much stronger. Perhaps I’ll return the favor.” He smiled at her lasciviously, the hunger naked in his eyes. He walked toward her casually. Devorah’s heart beat faster, harder, and she recognized the rush in her cheeks, the tingle in her arms, the tightness in her throat, as fear. And she knew he could taste it. And he underestimated her.

When he was within range, she let her body respond with a smooth lunge.

The tip of the sword punctured his skin, and she could see the surprise on his face. She drove it at his heart, but Vahramp’s new speed served him well. He grasped the blade in both hands and twisted it from her hands. Devorah didn’t let her disarmament phase her. Instead, she drew the daggers from her sleeves and cast them with easy accuracy at his eyes. Both blades struck home, and Vahramp staggered back, his cries of pain and outrage ringing off her mind. But before she could follow with another attack, Vahramp turned and fled, his speed and grace making unnatural.

The last of the creatures, Vahramp’s creatures, was subdued and set ablaze. Those without a blade lodged in its heart squealed and writhed as they burned. She took a moment to blink and in the space of that blink slip to the mindspace. There, she looked at the bowl of water on the desk in her mind. It was two-thirds empty.

When she opened her eyes, she turned to face her soldiers.

They stood still and silent, staring back with lifeless eyes through masks of blood, every one of them standing only through her power, not one truly alive. And it took several moments for her to realize that included Corporal Vickers.

Rory.

He was at the forefront, a budding leader even in undeath. Devorah swallowed hard, reigning in a sob threatening to rip her throat like a fevered coughing fit. She would not be weak, though only the dead were witness. She stepped to the undead that had been Corporal Rory Vickers and touched his face gently. Her fingertips came away bloody. She bit her tongue to keep the tears away. She bit so hard she tasted her own blood. She wanted to stand there and stare at him forever, to remember him as the shy boy who apologized for mischief, as the dependable ear who listened to her worries, as the young commander whose faith in her was unwavering.

“But you’re dead now.”

The power came to her naturally, the mad scribbles danced before her eyes, the book’s song squealed in her ear. She closed her eyes, but could still see as her power drained from the undead and they folded gently to the earth that opened to receive them. She extended her power to Vahramp’s creatures and the slain bandits, and in moments the dead were buried. But Rory’s face remained in her memory.

The dark hid her tears.

• • •

Those left behind struck camp in under a quarter hour, even with a third of their number dead. Devorah handed a letter to Sister Clarice. It was a brief explation to Colonel Lambert about Frederick Vahramp and his undead, specifically how to fight them.

“You’re in charge,” Devorah told her. “Get back quickly, and spread the word. This is more serious than any spat between noble houses.”

“What do you think you can do on your own against these creatures?” Sister Clarice demanded.

“Whatever it is, no one else will be in danger because they followed me.”

Sister Clarice frowned, but she nodded. “Saint Ruth said…” Devorah was about to object, but Sister Clarice held up a hand and continued. “‘When every choice is a wrong choice, change the rules.’”

Devorah laughed. “How like a cleric.”

Minutes later, they were on their way and she was alone but for the moonshadows and insect calls. She took a deep, quiet breath and closed her eyes.

“Well, Baby, Now what?”

Devorah startled and spun, sword drawn.

Emma squeaked and backed up several steps.

“Sorry, Baby. I mean, Devorah. I forgot.”

Devorah shook her head. She hadn’t noticed Emma. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m your personal attendant.”

“I just sent everyone south. Come on, we’ll have to hurry to catch up.”

But Emma shook her head. “I’m going with you, Baby. Oh! I mean… sorry.”

“I’m going on alone.”

“’Of course you are. And I’m coming with you.’ Besides. What if you’re turned into a newt?”

Devorah smiled.

“I’m not leaving you alone, Ba… Devorah.”

“You raised me for fifteen years. You took care of me when I was sick. You’re still taking care of me. You’ve earned the right to call me whatever you want.”

Emma beamed. “Oh. Um, the Governor gave me something. Said you might need it. After… well… I suppose you need it now.” She dug in a pack at her feet and withdrew, the black, leather-bound book.

Devorah reached for it without thinking and took it carefully from Emma’s hands. “I thought this was in the Governor’s office.” The song minced and skittered and meoldied through her mind, teasing, tempting, offering.

“Any chance of a cup of tea?” Devorah asked. “I’ll be up for a while.”