Black,

Still here.

What is your name?

-White

Devorah wasn’t about to tell Piety who she shared a mindspace with. Though she liked the little cleric, Piety was a pawn of the High Cleric, and her hampered ideals would force a confrontation Devorah didn’t want.

• • •

Though she felt fine, Sister Clarice insisted that Devorah was malnourished and dehydrated and shouldn’t be gallivanting around the countryside until she was better. Devorah suffered the cleric’s insistence, restricting her activities to the fort for the time being.

Colonel Lambert sat with her in a room near the top of the keep that had once been Mayor Pinefort’s study. The room allowed for a commanding view of the fort and the city via large windows. While occupied by Loreamer’s forces, it had been repurposed as a meeting chamber for commanding officers, and Colonel Lambert had seen no reason to change that.

A servant brought them a tea tray and Devorah immediately rose. The servant froze when the General of Kempenny’s Army took the tray and dismissed him with a silent nod. She set the tray in front of Colonel Lambert. The tray was laden with tea pot, cups, sugar, and lemon, but also with cured meat and cheese and bread, salt, and pepper.

“Do you like sugar in your tea?” Devorah asked.

Colonel Lambert sighed. “You don’t have to serve me, Scamp. I told you I’ve seen reactions like yours before.”

“I’ve been a terrible Governor and not much better a General. Also, I stabbed you. Thrice. I think I owe you at least this much.” Devorah poured his tea and added a single spoon of sugar and a healthy squeeze of lemon.

Colonel Lambert took the proffered drink with grace. His movements were still stiff, despite Sister Clarice’s ministrations. “I had you followed the night you disappeared,” Colonel Lambert said, his admission as much a surprise as his swordplay ever was. He laughed at the look on her face.

“You had me followed.”

Colonel Lambert ignored her. “I’m told you were entering peace negotiations with the Heir right there on the streets of Upton Port. Then the High Cleric, of all people, appeared as though from thin air. He had a set of twins with him and there was a bright light. Then all of you were gone.”

Devorah nodded. “Your point?”

“Only this. I’ve worked with Marcus Radden before. He is not a pleasant man. He’s at least as bad as Frederick Vahramp. You don’t have to tell me what happened to you while you were his prisoner. Just know that trauma like that can have a lasting effect. No matter how mentally strong you are.”

He took a sip of his tea and immediately spat it out. Devorah looked at him in alarm.

Colonel Lambert grimaced as he pointed to the tea tray. Devorah looked where he pointed. “Salt,” he said of the white, granular stuff she’d put in his tea. Then he pointed at the other small bowl filled with what, to her, looked like identical white, granular stuff. “Sugar,” he said.

Devorah laughed. Colonel Lambert was happy to see her do so.

They talked that morning of many things: any chance of peace seemed to have been destroyed by her alliance with the Mountain Kingdom; Kempenny Province was now rid entirely of Loreamer forces; roving undead terrorized the nation of Khulanty.

“Do you know anything about the Twenty-Seven Realms and intersects?” Devorah asked him.

Colonel Lambert wasn’t fazed by her sudden change of subject. “I’m not much for Scripture stories. I didn’t think you were either.”

“I created Vahramp. I’m connected to him through my necromancy. Sometimes I can see him, though I can’t find him. And lately he’s been looking for what’s called an Intersect, which he thinks can grant him even greater power. Colonel, I cannot let him become more of a terror than he is now. Of everything I’ve struggled for, I have to think that this is the most important.”

“More important than winning the war? There are many soldiers under your command counting on you, Scamp.”

“For me, the war has always been about freedom from tyranny. If Vahramp becomes more powerful, I’ll have lost anyway.” Devorah nodded. “But you’re right. I cannot ignore it. All our Kempenny forces are in province, yes?”

Colonel Lambert nodded.

“Then it’s the Mountain Kingdom warriors I need to rein in. What have you heard about the High Cleric raising his own army?” Even just saying his title brought her a flash of panic, cold sweat, and illusory white tile.

“Only rumors. Even if such an army exists, it’s not clear what its goals are.”

“We need to kill him,” Devorah said.

Colonel Lambert cleared his throat, uncomfortable, concerned she might carry the single-minded fever of revenge that her aunt had. Perhaps he was right.

“Scamp, there is another matter we must concern ourselves with.”

Devorah read the subject change easily. “The weapons the Loreamer soldiers used when you took Upton Port.”

“The Demons.”

Devorah scoffed. “Fire-arms,” she corrected. Bringing her mind back to the potential of the weapons, Devorah felt a small thrill of excitement.

“They’re impressive weapons, particularly in a siege or defending against one. Though they’re large and unwieldy they will easily turn the tide of this war if Loreamer decides to put them back in the field.”

“They’ve pulled back?”

“All my reports suggest they’re using them only to defend their largest cities, but I’ve got other reports that say they’re making more.” He looked grim. “As soon as they deploy them to the field, we will be hard pressed to counter them.”

“What if we have our own?”

Colonel Lambert perked up at this. “You’ve discovered how they work?”

“I have. And I’m sure I can improve on them. We’ll need foundries.”

• • •

Modern plumbing, a convenience Devorah had grown up with and that was slowly becoming widely available throughout Khulanty, had produced an offshoot of the traditional smith, foundries capable of creating hollow cylinders, a perfect place to start in manufacturing fire-arms. She showed the designs to the chief smith, in charge of the fort’s smithies and foundries.

“That’s all well and good, Governor,” said the smith, “I can make the pipes no problem. But that won’t give us the magic powder that the Loreamers got.”

Devorah smiled. “Leave that to me, master smith. Now, tell me what you think of this design.”

She’d come up with it while staring into the shadows last night, unable to sleep. It was a smaller version, small enough to be carried by a single soldier. The soldier would have to carry the powder and bullets, but that was a niggling concern. She spread the design on the smith’s counter.

“I can make ‘em that small, sure. What’s this doohickey here?” He put his big, blunt finger on the rotating cylinder she’d thought up while trying not to remember the High Cleric’s knives flashing in the illusory light.

“It’s a revolving set of chambers, each designed to hold a self-contained case of powder, primer, and bullet. It will have to be built separately and put together after.”

The smith was dubious. “That’ll be some tricky work, Governor. And this…” he pointed at the design of the self-contained cases. “That’ll be far more delicate than anything we’ve ever done. I’m not even sure it can be done.”

“I understand. I want you to focus on building the standard fire-arms first. The complicated designs are for later. I want all your efforts on this, master smith.”

“What of…”

Devorah interrupted him. “The horseshoes and pots, even the blades and armor we will contract out to the smiths in the city. This is to be all you work on. Understood?”

The smith sucked on his teeth then shrugged. “If you say so, Governor.”

• • •

A brief bout of asking around told Devorah that Pinefort had a single chemist on staff, and he spent most of his time in the healing ward with Sister Clarice.

When Devorah appeared in the healing ward, Sister Clarice gave her a critical look. “Have you been drinking water?”

Devorah nodded. “I need to speak with your chemist.”

The cleric waved her to the back of the ward where a small room held shelf upon shelf of bottles and packets and bundles, a small desk dominated by scales, mortar and pestle, and a stool where perched a man she recognized: Doctor Thomas Wilson.

She remembered being very small, very weak, very ill. She remembered the fevers and the coughing and for a moment it overlapped the jaw-clenching fear of white tile.

“Doctor, I have a task for you,” she said, to banish the memories. She handed him a short list of supplies and instructions she’d copied meticulously from the notes in the mindspace.

Doctor Wilson continued to grind the herbs in his mortar, though she had his attention. “Governor. I heard you were back. You’ve recovered from your illness.”

“Some time ago, yes.”

Doctor Wilson, finished, turned to face her and took the scrap of paper. “What have we here?” His expression did not change, but he disapproved. “Why should I make this for you, Governor?”

“Because it’s my money that pays you.”

“I can find work elsewhere.”

“Do you really think that will stop me, or Loreamer, from making more of these weapons? If you don’t do it, doctor, someone else will. I can pull the process from your mind and teach others.” She kept her tone even, practical.

Doctor Wilson’s look was steady. They looked at each other for several moments, neither willing to back down. “What will this accomplish?”

“An end to the war.” Devorah spoke with conviction and felt he man’s resolve waver. He wanted the conflict to end. He wanted to believe her. And after a few moments more, he stood and turned from her to look over his ingredients.

• • •

The first experiment with fire-arms was disastrous.

Devorah sat in a meeting with Colonel Lambert and various local administers of affairs when an explosion rocked the room. Devorah, who had insisted the room be dimly lit, grasped at the shadows while casting her mind in all direction. She found a suitable patch of shadow on the edge of the training grounds and pulled herself there in a moment.

A pair of bodies and a metal cylinder, twisted by the explosion, lay in a heap in the middle of the training yard. A crowd gathered around them. One of the men lay still, his death readily apparent. The other moved weakly, one arm destroyed to just below the shoulder. Fortunately, the blast had mostly cauterized the wound.

Ignoring the casualties, Devorah knelt before the twisted cylinder. Though it was hot, Devorah wrapped her hand in her sleeve and placed it on the weapon. It was apparent to her that this fire-arm had been poorly made: the walls were weak and uneven, the fuse port was too small, and the barrel wasn’t straight. Additionally, they had used far too much of the exploding powder.

“What by God’s Fire happened here?”

Devorah stood and faced the smith who looked at the wreckage of metal and men with horror. His secret thoughts told her about them. They were two of his least talented workers, neither worthy to be left alone in the forge. The one now missing an arm had an uncle killed in the Battle of Upton Port. The other, had been a refugee from when Loreamer’s forces had controlled Pinefort and was only recently returned.

“You fools!” the smith raged.

Devorah found she had no sympathy for them. She wanted to, but their idiocy in testing a volatile weapon outweighed other considerations.

“I trust this will not happen again, smith,” Devorah said as she walked back to her convenient shadow.

• • •

Training sessions took place on a bare stretch of earth behind the fort near the barracks. Burgeoning summer promised days when drilling and sparing on the training field would be a miserable prospect. At Sister Clarice’s direction, Devorah made certain to drink plenty of water while training. The smell of sweat and leather, the sound of metal and grunts, the taste of dirt and salt leant an earthy reality, welcome relief from unpredictable moments of panic and illusory tile walls.

Devorah stood in the middle of the practice yard in the full light of sunrise. The light gave her an edge of panic, a faint trembling just out of sight, the sense that if she turned too quickly, breathed too deeply, thought too hard, it would drown her mind in chaos. But the alternative was to hide in bed.

She held a practice sword in both hands. She remembered her earliest lessons with Colonel Lambert, weighed by restrictive armor. She remembered him offering her advice on leverage and joints and dirty tactics. When she had cast off the armor and proven to be a light, agile fighter, he had switched tactics, but she wondered now what she had lost out on. As Colonel Lambert had remarked, no one picked up the sword as fast as she did, not everyone had the advantages she did. In a fight to the death, on the field of battle, one man with a longsword needed those lessons.

She wondered if her felicity with weapons put her at a disadvantage.

Two of the three rushed her, coordinating. One feinted at her left while the other swiped at her right. Devorah read the feint and stepped into it, letting the swipe at her right fall short by just enough. She brought the pommel of her practice blade hard against the chest of the man who’d feinted. He coughed and stumbled back while the man on the right recovered from his miss. Devorah turned and struck at the third man, the one who’d gotten around behind her, but he hadn’t advanced as she’d expected. He was proud of having fooled her.

With all three opponents in sight, Devorah took a moment to consider. Her opponents took the moment as well. The one who’d taken the blow to the chest, advanced, like a pawn to be sacrificed, he would draw her attention while the others flanked her. It was a good strategy so long at he was willing to be sacrificed.

She paid him only enough mind to dodge his telegraphed thrust. Rather than taking the bait, she moved in close, putting her back hard against his sword arm. His fellow pulled back his attack, and Devorah pushed off the man at her back to strike her target: knee, shoulder, back. He grunted, fell, and rolled away.

Devorah spun in time to dodge a clumsy swing from the man meant to be a sacrifice. He was still trying to draw her attention off his fellow, so she ignored him and went for the other, batting his sword aside and thrusting hard to his chest.

But that was the second time she’d put her back to the sacrifice, and she wasn’t afforded a third. The pawn struck her a blow across the back that buckled her knees. Her mind shrieked in white, her vision blanked, her ears erupted with fury and terror and she could have recovered and struck back.

Instead, she retreated to the mindspace and let her body fall.

She stared at the chess board, at the white queen’s pawn, its profile growing fuzzy as she let her vision unfocus. She took a long, slow breath, and the edge of white at her vision receded and relaxed. She took another and the pawn sharpened in her mind.

“The problem with chess is all the moves are constrained to the board. Every choice puts me that much closer to a predictable endgame. It’s pattern-based memorization with no room for adaptation. I need room to adapt.”

“General?”

Devorah leapt to her feet, eyes wide. The men she’d been sparing with looked at her with concern from half again the distance of a sword strike. They didn’t look like pawns, they looked like people.

“Well done, gentlemen.”

• • •

She spent her nights hunting vhamps. She would lie in bed and let her mind wander the shadows until she found one of the creatures.

If the vhamp was near people, if anyone was in immediate danger, she would simply take hold of the snag of power, that imbalance in Mind, Soul, and Body, and untie it, destroying the creature. If, however, the vhamp was in no immediate danger of killing a person, Devorah would wait and watch, because vhamps were changing.

At their core, vhamps were undead who required the blood of the living to continue their miserable existence. Though they could go without blood for a time, they became more wretched and beast like the longer they went. A vhamp well-fed became more human like. Vhamps were stronger and faster than humans. Their teeth, and nails could elongate into formidable weapons. Their sputum was venomous, with the potential to change a human into a vhamp. But they weren’t without weakness: sunlight, a impalement of the heart, and, strangely, gold.

One night Devorah found a vhamp in a camp of miners. The miners were dead hours hence, so Devorah spent some time observing the creature. When it went through the miners’ packs, sniffing for anything that might yet have blood within, it stumbled upon a pouch of gold flakes. Upon touching the creature’s skin, it immediately began to smoke as though touched by sunlight.

She wondered how she had missed that detail, unless it was something new. And there were many new characteristics among the vhamps. Some, like the one she’d seen in the Empire months ago, could stumble about during daylight, though direct contact still destroyed them. Some had gained the ability to fly without wings. Some were repelled by holy land. All without any explanation she could find.

She began recording the changes every morning, intending to add them to black book when she had time to organize and expand on her observations.

• • •

After nine days of remaining confined to the fort, nearly a full week, Devorah decided she felt fine. If she could spar on the practice fields, she could venture into the field. She left a note for Colonel Lambert before casting her mind to the shadows.

There were many camps of Mountain Kingdom warriors, but there was one, near the coast of the province, well north of Upton Port, that was their base of operations. Once it had been a trading post for fishermen, trappers, and miners who spread along the coastal mountains. It was a rough patch of the province and it took a hardy type of person to make a living. But the men of the Mountain Kingdom were unusually large, bread and trained to fight and kill with an efficiency Devorah could only respect.

Walking among the small collection of buildings, Devorah knew she was planning on killing the man in charge here. It disturbed her to think on how often she had put herself among a group of people, intent on killing the one in charge. Was she a victim of circumstance or did she take the path of violence without consideration? Did all her problems need to be solved with violence or, considering her abilities, was it simply expedient?

Devorah made her way to the hall, a building composed of a single room containing three long tables used for the express purpose of meals and drinking. It was well after regular meal time, but the men of the Mountain Kingdom enjoyed drinking into the night.

Devorah let herself in, cloaked in shadow and was halfway down the hall before anyone realized she was there. Violence erupted around her with no chance for other paths. They thought her a monster, a vhamp able to bend the shadows. They reacted with practical expediency and she responded in kind. The weapons of the warriors of the Mountain Kingdom were large and heavy; they were slow. Devorah, light and agile, danced aside, letting the shadows mislead the large men into striking wide off the mark. She struck with her rapier, a bare sliver against the axes and hammers and swords used against her, but her thin blade drew lines of blood off the large men. She did not strike fatally.

She made her way to the fore of the hall where sat Battlechief Uther Trollsbridge, the man who lead. He sat in a large chair, a cup of mead in one hand and haunch of beef in the other, for all the world like a figure out of legend. He did not fear her. And as it became evident that she was approaching him, he calmly set aside his comestibles and stood, still unafraid. He knew who she was.

“Stand down, men!” Trollsbridge shouted.

Devorah lowered her blade as the men attacking her followed his command without question. She strode toward the Battlechief, shedding much of her shadow along the way. He nodded without deference then extended his hand. Devorah grasped his forearm as was custom among Mountain Kingdom warriors. His grip was crushing but she didn’t let him see her discomfort.

“This is Warchief Kempenny,” Battlechief Trollsbridge said, his deep voice carrying over the murmurs of his men. “You will show her your respect and count yourselves lucky she chose not to slay the lot of you.”

Devorah found herself reevaluating the Battlechief. Perhaps she would not have to kill him after all.

The Battlechief adjusted his large chair so it faced the room at an angle. A gesture summoned a chair for Devorah, similarly placed so when they sat they faced each other and the rest of the room at once. Among the Mountain Kingdom, chiefs weren’t meant to keep secrets from their warriors, but neither were warriors expected to intrude on the business of a chief unless he wanted to fight for the right to, thus, a semblance of privacy without keeping secrets.

“You and your men have been taking liberties, Battlechief,” Devorah said. “You’ve been attacking the people of my province, sacking villages with whom I have no quarrel. You’ve been making unauthorized forays into neighboring provinces, undermining the peace process.”

Battlechief Trollsbridge laughed, a full belly laugh that filled the hall and was echoed by the warriors therein.

“You did not make an alliance with my King to expedite a peace process. We are here for battle, and when our Warchief was not on hand to give orders, it fell to me.” He smiled. He was a good-humored man, amused by her umbrage.

“You will pull your men back within Kempenny borders. You will guard the borders only. You will not engage any enemy unless on direct orders from me.”

The Battlechief did not laugh this time, but he was amused all the same. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen, Warchief. Your position gives you authority over who we fight, but not how or whether we fight, that’s up to the Battlechiefs.”

“I could just kill you.”

The room went quiet at that, proving the lie of privacy.

“And break your alliance with King Haland? No, I don’t think you’ll do that. With so many of his warriors already within your borders and no alliance to protect you, that would be consigning your province to ruin. Point at the enemy, Warchief, and leave the rest to me.”

• • •

Late afternoon light washed over the training field. The smith and one of his muscle-bound helpers carried a finished fire-arm onto the field, setting it on a wheeled base designed to absorb the kick-back force. The two, using an improvised broom, pushed the powder packed in paper and a wad of cotton into the barrel of the weapon, followed by an iron sphere. Devorah stepped next to the weapon and placed her hand upon it. She could feel it like she could feel her rapier. She could feel all its lumbering, overt power. It was blunt for her tastes, but it was a start.