The Grace's War

PROLOGUE BLACKVINE “We need to kill the ones who refuse Heaven. At least until we can reinforce the caravans enough that they no longer present a threat,” regret tinged Major Rohm’s voice. Colonel Heine nodded and swept a hand across his pitted face, scratching an insect bite beneath his long mustache. His brown eyes looked sad, but then, they always looked sad. “Yes,” he agreed. “Or at least driven to the edges of the valley until we can secure the farms. Are the saplings through the tunnel yet?” Major Rohm shook his head. “We haven’t gotten any word yet. It shouldn’t be long, now.” It had been easier than Colonel Heine dared hope. In fact, he’d expected disaster to come at any moment, but it seemed the traitor General Albertus Mann had indeed broken these people when he’d come to this valley over three years ago. There’d been no resistance when Heine had led his paltry force of marines and farmers down the ropes, still dangling abandoned from Mann’s incursion. He wondered why the people here hadn’t just left after a way out had been presented to them. If he could ever get one of these barbarians to speak N’naradin, that was the first thing he would ask them. He looked up at the grotto. A messenger had begun his descent, over-cautious, clutching at cracks in the obsidian cliff as he edged down the old rope. It had supported the fifty-five men who’d already come down; he didn’t know why this lone, scrawny man was so worried about it breaking now. i***t. He chewed on the end of his mustache. Their journey across the Yellow Desert had been easy too. The desert tribes had either seen their debt with the N’naradin Empire settled or not viewed Heine’s little gathering of marines and farmers a threat worth their time. Either way was fine with Heine, and Rohm had shown visible relief when they’d arrived in the foothills un-harassed. Mann’s mistake had been bringing his army all at once. In groups of fifty here, a hundred there, the former General would have been able to cross with the regular caravans just as he had. If Mann had bothered asking for his advice last time, he would have told him as much. Once within the valley, there’d only been one lone skirmish, in which the Grace’s forces had driven off their attackers of teenagers and elderly with ease. Rohm said they’d killed all the able-bodied adults their first foray here, thanks to the wisdom of Cardinal Vimr, whom General Mann had murdered with a knife in the back. Coward. Rohm had shown his spine by reporting that blasphemy to the Grace Herself after they’d returned. It had earned him a promotion. Whispers were he’d become the Grace’s General after they returned home from the Black Wall and Heine joined the clergy. It was a shame Mann had escaped the Pit with the help of a few pirates. Heine hoped the old man was rotting now, wherever he was. After what seemed like hours, the messenger finished his descent and trotted over to Colonel Heine and Major Rohm. Behind him, more farmers had begun their long descent, with, Heine noted, more courage and speed than the messenger had displayed. “Colonel,” the young man wheezed as he stopped in front of them with a flaccid salute. “The plants are through the tunnel, and the caravan is prepping them for their return to Fom. Commander N’fallis says the safest route will be to follow the foothills north, then skirt the Dry Mountains all the way to The Piers, rather than risk crossing the desert again. Not because of the nomads, she says. Nobody knows how those brambles would fare in the heat, but she says since they grow way up here, they probably won’t do well in—” “Yes, yes,” Heine cut in, annoyed. “I suppose there’s wisdom in that. It will add a month or more to her trip back to Fom, but it can’t be helped. Tell her I approve any action she sees necessary. I will do my best to rendezvous with her in Great Spring once I am confident things are settled here. But make it clear she is not to wait more than a week. Who knows how long the Grace will be able to keep the Upper Great Road secure if Tyrsh makes another go at it? The added security will mean nothing if we’re under siege the whole way through the wastes.” He turned to Rohm, who’d been watching the exchange with a poorly concealed smirk, guessing Heine’s thoughts. “Major, I’m sorry to reward your service with such a miserable task, but you’re the only one I trust to oversee our settlement here. Besides which, you’ve had some dealings with these people before. Limited, I know, but it’s still more than anyone else can say. I trust you have no complaints at staying behind. If Mann had allowed me to accompany you into the valley last time, I’d do it myself.” Rohm saluted and bowed. “None at all, Colonel. This climate suits me.” “Good. Start with that first farm. The one a few hours from here, due south. Don’t worry about the others until we know if all this will be worth it.” “The Grace thinks it is, Colonel.” “Indeed, she does, and she’s rarely wrong. We’ve supposedly learned how to shape these miserable brambles. Now we just need to see if it actually works.” He watched the continued descent of the farmers and soldiers before turning back to Rohm. “With a little of Heaven’s luck, these bushes will both survive the trip back to Fom and grow once they get there. Then we can leave this Heaven-forgotten chasm to whatever wretched barbarians remain.” “Yes sir. May I be dismissed, sir? I’d like to begin defensive preparations at the first farm as soon as possible, in case the defenders find their spines.” “Of course, Major. May Heaven guide you.” Colonel Heine watched the departing back of Rohm, mind on N’fallis’s task of getting the bushes back to Fom alive. He pulled out the smooth, black, wooden knife the Grace had given him before he’d departed and examined it again. Taken from some vagabond a patrol had found in the mountains east of Fom, filed away and forgotten by idiots who didn’t recognize its significance. That vagabond had been from this valley; one of the last defenders pursuing Mann across the continent to get back whatever the traitor had taken. He’d been thrown in the Pit, only to escape with none other than Mann himself before anyone realized who he was. Heine wondered where that man was now, and whether he’d ended up killing the general after they’d escaped. He hoped they’d ended up killing each other. Still, through the mercy of the Heavens and the wisdom of the Grace it had worked out in the end. When the Grace had taken Myrion’s Revenge, the occupying forces had come across detailed notes in the ruins of the government house describing this substance—this blackvine. How they worked it into knives and roof tiles and everything else they used here in this forsaken valley. Wood that could cut through bronze as if it were a hard cheese. The civil war had become a bloody stalemate. The Arch Bishop had suffered a major blow with the destruction of Eheene and the loss of the never confirmed but long suspected aid of the High Merchant’s Syndicate, but he still had far greater numbers than the Grace of Fom. Neither side had gained advantage since that explosion had reduced the Skalkaad capital to ashes and an ever-burning naphtha fire. Maybe, if they could master the use of this blackvine, Fom would find the upper hand the Grace needed.