Chapter 612: Battle’s End
Roland stepped out of the cabin as the gunboat shuddered to a stop.
What met him could not have been planned.
Arch-shaped mountain rock extended from both sides of the valley, curving around the whole town like two enormous arms thrown open in welcome. Sunlight entered through a finger-wide crevice and fell in a solid wall of gold. Vines—green, numberless, thick as mooring rope where the old ones reached the ground—hung from the stone face down to the valley floor. Water murmured somewhere underneath the overgrowth. Branches fractured the light into glints that moved across the surface of the brook, and Roland had the sensation of standing not in a town but in a forest that had decided, almost incidentally, to permit a town inside it.
The temperature was lower than he expected—a degree or two of cool that the lack of direct sun sustained. Colors deepened here: the greens were almost blue, the stone almost black. No wonder it was called Deepvalley Town.
He and the witches stepped onto a moss-furred dock and met the reception party: Iron Axe at the front, Duke Calvin of the Northern Region, and beside him, Edith.
“We meet again, Your Majesty.” She curtsied.
“Congratulations on your first victory.” Roland gave a nod of genuine approval. “Iron Axe tells me you handled the supply lines and managed to draw the enemy out. Well done.”
“The obligations of Kant Family,” she said, with the faint, composed smile she always wore. “The merchants of the Northern Region are pleased to serve.”
Half a year ago this town still belonged to Timothy, Roland thought. The tradesmen here had never heard the new king’s name. That they had moved for Edith’s plan—that alone—said something about her.
He turned to Iron Axe. “Casualties?”
“The detailed report is in your office, Your Majesty.” Iron Axe gave a clean salute. “I’ve seen to it personally.”
“Office?”
Edith stepped in. “I spoke with Earl Haier and we’ve arranged the castle for your use during your stay. The study has been refurnished to resemble the one in Border Town—Miss Maggie mentioned you prefer a bright room, so a south-facing wall has been replaced with a French window.”
“And the earl?”
“He’ll remain in his country house in order not to disturb your work.” She paused. “Shall I summon him?”
“No, leave him be.” Roland waved a hand. “He sounds like a man who doesn’t enjoy politics. Let’s go in.”
This is what power feels like, he thought as they walked. Not bad, in small doses.
Roland could have been in City of Neverwinter.
The mahogany desk was the same. The coffee table and the recliner in the corner were the same. Outside the French window, a green dale breathed where the Impassable Mountain Range should have been—that was the only difference that mattered. He sat at the desk and wondered idly what Earl Haier would make of his own study when the king had gone.
He opened the report.
What he saw made him set down his tea.
One hundred fifty-six God’s Punishment Warriors killed in action. He had worried, somewhere in the back of his mind, that these converted soldiers were truly invulnerable—that flesh refashioned by witch blood could resist what ordinary flesh could not. The number on the page dissolved that worry. Flesh was flesh. It did not negotiate with iron balls and fire. Given that every conversion required a witch’s blood—a resource the church could not mass-produce—and that Agatha estimated the total army at no more than fifteen hundred, a one-to-ten casualty ratio against a single engagement was a loss the church would feel for years.
Three hundred Judgement Warriors killed. Four commanders captured. He noted them, dismissed them—Judgement Warriors were essentially armed knights, dangerous in close quarters, no more.
What had not happened was equally important. They had encountered no pure witches. One combat witch with the right ability could have altered the entire engagement. That they hadn’t—that Sylvie and Iffy had held the line together—was luck or something adjacent to it, and he did not intend to rely on it twice.
He folded the report. “Casualties in the First Army?”
“Two killed, twenty-one severely injured.” Iron Axe’s voice dropped a register. “All from close-range spear throws by the God’s Punishment Warriors. The wounded have recovered and returned to service.”
Lightning had brought Nana to Deepvalley Town the moment news of the attack reached them. Nobody provided better treatment than Miss Angel.
Roland knocked the desk once with his knuckles. “Arrange transport for the bodies. They go to City of Neverwinter for burial.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Iron Axe paused. “What would you have done regarding the unit leader of the fourth premium shooting unit—Danny?”
“The old hunter who took down five God’s Punishment Warriors?” Roland picked up his tea. “Your opinion first.”
The situation had reached him the night of the battle, via the Sigil of Listening. Brian had noticed that Danny and his protector’s wounds were inconsistent with their stated positions—Danny had moved from his assigned post. With the army still celebrating and the protector in critical condition, Roland had asked Iron Axe to treat the wounded first. Now they were at Deepvalley Town, and it was time.
“He abandoned his post without authorization,” Iron Axe said slowly, “which is clearly a violation of the rules. But he personally killed five God’s Punishment Warriors. In the Iron Sand City, a fighter like that receives rewards, not punishment, and his contribution was more than sufficient to—”
“The First Army is not the Iron Sand City.” Roland set down the cup. “Do you remember what I taught you in the very first training session?”
Iron Axe’s jaw set. “Discipline, Your Majesty.”
“Only a disciplined army is an invincible army.” Roland rose and walked to the French window. “This matters especially now. Tell me: how does the regulation handle it?”
Iron Axe replied without hesitation. “Suspension without pay, fifteen days’ detention if no further harm results. Dismissal and trial before Your Majesty if further harm results.”
“Correct.” Roland kept his gaze on the dale. “Given the upcoming campaign, reduce the detention to five days here, with the remainder served in City of Neverwinter.” He turned. “Don’t worry about morale. This sets the example: contribution earns recognition, but violations are punished regardless of merit. Let the men know both things are true simultaneously. If anyone asks, tell them I have my own arrangements for Danny’s service record.”
He paused.
I’m partly responsible for this. He had created the premium shooting unit without separating the trained snipers from the ordinary gun battalion—had assigned them all as flanking fire support without considering that a man like Danny would naturally operate according to his own judgement. That was an oversight in doctrine, not Danny’s failure of character. After this war, he would redesign the unit around what a true sniper team required: better equipment, specific positioning protocols, and the kind of proactive independence that Danny had been acting on instinctively all along.
“One more matter, Your Majesty.” Iron Axe’s tone shifted—careful, choosing words. “The captured commanders have disclosed certain information. About the God’s Punishment Army.”
Roland turned back from the window. “Go on.”
“They cannot act independently. Without a commander’s direct order, they can only perform the most basic functions.”
Ashes had told him something similar—which was precisely why he had felt confident enough to come north and provoke the church. A God’s Punishment Army that could operate autonomously would require only a handful of soldiers to sow chaos across the kingdom. The confirmation steadied something in his thinking.
“There’s more,” Iron Axe said. “A commander can be any person—ordinary or a pure witch—and once assigned, cannot be changed. New members undergo a ceremony to receive their commands. One captive attended such a ceremony and described it.”
“Take me to them,” Roland said. “And bring Agatha.”