Vol 9, Chapter 1

◆ Capital of the Kingdom of Steel, Dastan the First POV ◆


In the dungeon beneath the Royal Castle, silence reigned.

Well, almost silence, for the faint hissing of a magical barrier gnawed at it, just as the barrier itself gnawed at the Theocracy's artifact.

The sacred fang, too elongated to be human, floated above the table, separated from the surface only by layers of transparent wards. A multitude of magical instruments surrounded it, meticulously measuring energy loss. The tiny speck of void that had seeped into the bone relic was thinning the wards one by one, causing the fang to sink ever lower.

The King didn't put much faith in mere calculations; every theory had to be backed by practice, especially in matters this important.

This was not the first experiment on a model of the Dome. A puddle had already gathered beneath the table, and the tabletop itself had been blackened by fire, and to the King's surprise, fire fared far worse against the barriers than water.

Leaning over the table, he quickly drew his fingernail along the ward.

The magical fields parted but tried to close again instantly. Too late, the relic dropped easily into the King's palm.

"It seems that simple physical impact remains the most efficient approach. Hardly surprising; when our scientists created it, they likely never imagined someone would ascend dozens of kilometers into the sky to strike it with a sword," Dastan murmured thoughtfully.

He placed the fang into a casket and carefully recorded the results. All that remained was to calculate how much less power this method would require. Hm, it looked like a breakthrough, but void energy would be needed to keep the barrier from sealing back up. Interesting; if one were to combine frost with explosive runes, could it be possible to...

Knock, knock, knock.

A loud rapping on the reinforced door broke his train of thought.

"I told you not to disturb me!" he hissed, and heard the apologetic voice of his assistant.

"A thousand apologies, Your Majesty. But... the monitoring artifacts have detected an anomalous drop in mana production across the entire First Duchy."

"How large a drop?" he asked suspiciously. According to his plans, that shouldn't have happened until spring. Had the Necromancer gone rogue and started ahead of schedule, before the Duke's army could weaken the County?

"Ninety-two point six percent of the annual average," the assistant replied after a brief hesitation. "That's... bad, isn't it?"

"Come in," Dastan said curtly, wiping the smile from his face and replacing it with a mask of concern.

The door opened almost soundlessly, admitting his pale assistant. Adjusting her glasses, she handed him a leather folder filled with papers.

"I double-checked, but there's no mistake. The magical potential of the First Duchy has simply collapsed; it happened within mere days."

"Yes, that is certainly a problem. Is there any trace of death magic in the region?"

"No, Your Majesty, nothing of the sort. Judging by localization, the undead army remains at the northern border of the Kingdom, near the County of Condor."

"Strange, very strange."

"Indeed. That's why I dared to disturb you."

"Any reports from our spies?"

"I'm afraid not, Your Majesty. None have made contact, perhaps the messenger chimeras are being intercepted. But observers report unrest in the borderlands, riots, even uprisings. I believe that may be exaggerated, or perhaps the result of some local catastrophe. I hesitate to sound overly pessimistic, but could the disease that swept through the Commonwealth have reached the First Duchy as well?"

"Impossible," the King dismissed the notion with a wave.

"With all due respect, sire, it concerns the safety of the entire Kingdom. Perhaps I should send a detachment of knights on an investigative mission; trusted men who won't gossip, and whose loss would not weaken the Royal Domain."

"Granted. Leave the papers on the table and see to it," the King snorted, gesturing toward the door. Bowing deeply, she withdrew, but the glance she cast back at him made Dastan note that he might soon have to get rid of her. She was taking too many liberties. When he had still been a prince, she would never have dared such tone. Well, it would all be over soon enough.

He flipped through the papers she left behind and grunted softly.

"Hmm, a sharp spike in magical tension in the Fourth Duchy. I have a feeling the spies will bring interesting news this week. And you, my dear shadow, can stop hiding now. You came in together with my assistant and slipped past my wards? Impressive."

Behind the King, the shadow darkened. In the blink of an eye, a figure stood there.

"Your fleet has grown," the sorceress observed casually. "So many Commonwealth ships... yet crewed by Kingdom sailors. How did you persuade them to sell you that many?"

"Natural charm," the King smiled, not about to mention that the ships had been stolen from the dead docks of the Commonwealth, abandoned after the magical plague. "Now speak. Why have you come? I am, as you can see, rather busy."

"Preparing to feed us all to the Void?" the assassin snorted and tossed a sack onto the table. Something round shifted inside. "A gift from Samael."

The sack skidded across the surface, knocking over several delicate instruments that shattered against the stone floor. Dastan didn't even flinch.

"Oh, a gift from my enemy. How fascinating; for a moment I was even tempted to throw it straight into the fire," he remarked with a crooked smile, untying the cords.

Inside was a severed head. Its eyes were bound with black cloth, its mouth gagged. Even without a body, the face twisted and struggled to spit the gag out. The Exalted were notoriously difficult to kill.

"Well, well... my dear brother, the Pontiff! A little dried out, poor soul." He chuckled softly. "An ideal focus for a ritual. I won't even have to send an expedition to the Theocracy's High Temple for relics. Truly a useful gift. I'm almost impressed. What's gotten into Samael? Does he think this will make me spare his brethren?"

"Not in the slightest. Do as you wish," the assassin replied with a shrug.

"Oh, when have I ever done otherwise?" Dastan laughed and lifted the head by its hair.

He fetched a crystal vessel of the proper size from a nearby shelf, emptied its reagents directly onto the floor without a care, and filled it with chilled blood drawn from a set of glass tubes. The thick liquid splashed as the head dropped into it with a wet thud.

"I've learned enough of gods to stop pretending to understand their motives," Dastan said, turning to face his guest, "but yours still intrigue me."

While pacing the laboratory, he let his steps 'accidentally' bring him closer to the crown on the writing desk. Absentmindedly, he traced its edge, ready to summon power if her answer displeased him.

"Since when are you interested in my motives?" she asked. "We've always had excellent business relations, and you never complained."

"Yes, though in the past my spies didn't report you moonlighting for both sides."

"Oh, please. A little freelance work never hurt anyone. You of all people should understand that. I've always served Samael first and foremost."

"Hm..."

"Doesn't this little present prove whose side I'm on?" she murmured, licking her lips slowly. For an instant her fangs glinted—just a little too long for a human's.

"Who can say," the King waved dismissively. "I can't stand Samael's zealots. You're all the same: inconsistent, deranged... schizophrenic. What's to stop you from driving a dagger into my back when it matters most?"

"Then strike first, if you're that afraid." The assassin's fingers slid down the leather of her trousers, caressing the obsidian blades resting at her hips.

"Then you would certainly stab me the moment I turned away," he mused, then slowly released the crown. "No... I think I'll let fate rest untempted."

"A wise decision. By the way," she nodded toward the vessel, "it seems the Pontiff managed to rid himself of the gag."

"So he has. How's the bath, brother?" Dastan asked cheerfully, tapping on the glass.

"You're a monster!" the head gurgled, voice muffled by the blood.

"Mmh... A disembodied head calls me a monster. Tell me, dear—who's the real monster here?"

"Both," the assassin declared.

"How uncivil." Dastan chuckled. "Brother, you should thank this witch for finally muzzling her conscience and taking the winning side. You'll have front-row seats for the world's end."

"Pff. I did it because Samael promised me survival," the assassin muttered under her breath, perching on the table and folding her arms.

"Not leaving, then?" Dastan asked with growing irritation as he pulled the silk cloth off a crystal orb and draped it over the jar containing the head.

"I'll stay for a while."

"I'm working."

"Doesn't look like it."

"Fine" He smiles, but the smile twists into a grimace. "Get your ass off my documents... Or I'll cut you to pieces, and I wouldn't want to do that, since then they'll get stained with blood... assuming you even have any. Hm. Maybe I should check?"
The woman exhaled, slid off the table, and picked up a leather folder. Before she could open it, the King's hand caught hers.

"If we're allies, why not let me read what's inside?" she purred.

After a brief pause, Dastan released her wrist. There was nothing of true importance in the folder anyway, but it would be interesting to see whether those same details surfaced elsewhere.

"Very well, you may read it. Let's see if we truly are on the same side. Tell me, have you noticed anything unusual in the First Duchy?"

The dungeon filled with the rustle of pages. The woman wasn't about to answer without thinking it through. When the King saw that she was completely absorbed in trying to decipher the diagrams, he quietly laid his hand on the crystal orb. Since the First Duchy was now out of the game, there was no reason to keep the dead in the north.

A brief surge of death magic made the assassin flinch. The command to the necromancer had been given.

She turned, trying to understand what had just happened, while Dastan, smiling, approached and gently took the report from her hands.

"I didn't understand a thing," she admitted. Not surprising — it wasn't an organized report but raw readings straight from the instruments.

"No matter. I'll say it plainly, then. Lord Condor has done all the work for us. The magical power of the First Duchy is destroyed; the Third and Second are weakened by civil war, and the Commonwealth is dying rapidly. Only the Fourth still thrives — is that fair? It is not!"

On the table, the crystal orb erupted in a storm. Within it, ranks of frozen flesh stirred, bones cracking. Steam rose, and the frosty day filled with the stench of corpses. A dragon of bone, assembled from human remains, shed snow-covered bodies like a hatchling breaking from its shell. A hooded figure gave a last glance at the eternally frozen statues of lesser undead. When one of them tried to move, it shattered itself — a useless lump of fragments.

A harsh winter, unknown to the Great Desert, had easily trapped most of the army. Yet... new meat shells could always be found. A wave of a skeletal hand tore life's parody from thousands of bodies. Gathering power into his staff, the necromancer hobbled southward, followed by a mountain of flesh and a black knight.

The master had ordered him to march toward the Fourth Duchy.

**************************

The black weave of tendrils before me didn't so much as twitch, though by my reckoning, noon had long since passed. The men, however, weren't too happy standing in the snow, waiting for the elves to open the "gate." Oddly enough, despite the snowfall, the tendrils remained wet but never froze over. So at least it would be warm inside… once those damned elves finally let our delegation through!

"Time?" I asked Meister Orin, who had insisted on joining the negotiations.

"Twelve ten, my lord," the old man replied, checking his chronometer.

"I suppose our friends don't own clocks," I sighed, making Lariel blush.

"Humans… simply lack patience," she tried to excuse them. "Harmony with nature requires that—"

She didn't finish. The tendrils began to move, opening a passage. Warm, humid air breathed out from within — apparently, sealing off the forest hadn't done wonders for its ventilation. Still, the darkness inside was just as deep as ever.

At least we no longer needed torches.

The soldiers split into pairs: one carried a heavy spotlight, the other kept a rifle ready. Bright beams cut through the Black Forest's interior.

Coming back here… stirred memories.

The tangled black roots still twisted underfoot. The Meister raised his hands, but the elf maiden stopped him.

"Please, no fire."

"Oh, come now, young lady. These sticks burn terribly! Believe me, I know."

"Still… I must insist."

"Abyss damn it," he muttered, quickening his pace to keep close to me.

For a while we walked in silence. Most of the soldiers kept glancing around, barely holding back questions, while the rest grew increasingly grim, their eyes constantly drawn upward. Nearly half the spotlights were trained on the canopy.

I couldn't blame them.

Soon we reached an open clearing. The gap above had long since overgrown, only the thinner branches hinted that an icy storm had once raged here. Those branches, and the heap of gutted tree spider corpses. After cutting their cores, we'd left them where they fell; now they slowly sank into the roots, as if the forest itself were swallowing them.

"Somewhere around here lie the remains of my kettle," the old man said with nostalgia.

I nodded respectfully. His copper kettle had served us well in a critical moment… and not only it. Slowing my pace, I stepped aside to brush my hand over the wood-chitin carcass, scorched through by alchemical fire.

It was a pity Til wasn't with us; he would have appreciated the handiwork of his own creation. But alas, his current mission was far more important and dangerous than trudging through the forest with us. Though he was probably glad that while I played the diplomat here, he had the chance to play the hero, and test his new toy.

Damn elves, choosing the most inconvenient time possible, leaving me no chance to join him. At least I could indulge in a little nostalgia. Even after all this time, a single glance around was enough for me to remember clearly where everything had happened.

Our procession slowed on its own; I wasn't the only one overtaken by memories. Quiet voices filled the forest. A veteran, resting his rifle on his shoulder, pointed out a spot near a root to a younger soldier, then at his own chest. I doubted he was referring to the rows of medals on his cuirass.

The murmur was cut short by the cries of the sentries. The searchlights tore many-legged shadows from the darkness.

"They won't attack!" Lariel shouted. "They're just surprised you stopped. Maybe we should keep moving, yes?"

The old man frowned, instinctively checking for the kerosene flask hidden in the folds of his robe.

"I confess, this feels unsettling. Perhaps we should..." The alchemist nodded toward the radioman carrying a backpack transmitter.

"We didn't come here to fight, at least not yet," I answered, but still checked that my pistol sat firmly in its holster. "Heads up! Today, at least, we'll see what's hidden in the heart of the forest."

The shadows multiplied. The farther we went, the less they bothered to hide, until finally, two warrior spiders emerged right in our path.

Stopping just ten paces from the delegation, they froze. So did we. One of the flamethrower operators flicked his brass lighter to prime the weapon. A couple of soldiers raised their bazookas; rifles would hardly pierce such thick chitinous armor.

"You said they invited us themselves," I remarked to the elf maiden, unfastening my holster. The creatures hadn't attacked, but still, why the hell block our path at all?

"Um... maybe these weren't told yet, or they forgot," she tried to justify them, then added, "But I think they're not hostile, so it's fine!"

In answer, one of the spiders shifted uneasily from leg to leg, turning its glossy carapace as if it didn't quite know why it was here.

"Is that normal behavior?" I asked.

"I think so... No, I mean, sometimes they do go out of control, but in such cases they focus more on spreading the Tree's seeds than on attacking anyone."

Our conversation was interrupted by an elf who appeared out of nowhere. Wielding his bow like a whip, he struck the spiders on their sides, herding them away like a shepherd driving off wandering cattle, assuming... of course, those cattle were the size of tanks!

Within a couple of minutes, the way was clear.

"Hurry, the Council awaits you," the elf said curtly and vanished through an opening between two tendril-like branches. On closer look, it resembled a guardhouse grown directly from the living wood.

It probably was. After just a few dozen steps, such openings appeared more frequently; some sank into the ground, others resembled proper dwellings, if one were inclined to live twenty meters above the forest floor. Soon, there was no need for artificial light, as a soft glow emanated from the settlement itself, illuminating the surroundings well enough.

But it wasn't just light that came from the elven village; there was also the distinct smell of swamp. The earth squelched beneath our boots, and the air was so humid it felt like one could wring water straight from it. Dew immediately settled on my pistol's grip and on the soldiers' weapons. Good thing the powder in our cartridges couldn't get damp, or we'd be plagued with misfires.

"That building, the biggest one, that's where we're going," Lariel called, hurrying ahead.

Calling it a building was generous. It was an enormous black trunk, seemingly solid all the way through. Then again, what else had I expected?

Two elven guards stood at the entrance, holding polearms resembling guisarmes. They looked as though they had grown straight out of the tree... But as soon as I stepped forward, the hafts crossed, barring my way.

"Weapons are not permitted in the Council Hall," one of them said evenly, gesturing toward my sword. Ha.

"That's a symbol of a noble lord," Orin began, but I silenced him with a wave.

"Do your restrictions apply only to my sword, or to everything we carry?"

The guard slowly looked over our group, bristling with every kind of weapon imaginable, and nodded.

"Yes. Hand over the blade."

I snorted with laughter, shoved the sword into his hands, and stepped calmly through the archway. My very first step sent up a splash of water. The Council Hall's floor was flooded to ankle height. Interesting choice of design…

"The water has flooded the roots, that's why it's damper here than usual," Lariel whispered apologetically.

"And it didn't occur to you to drain it before the guests arrived?"

"The Elders believe the problem will resolve itself by summer, and that interfering might disturb the natural course of things."

"Mmm…" I commented, sensing in it a truly elven approach. I'd even say that this approach was quite literally pouring into my boots in icy streams.

Perhaps that was why I missed almost the entire announcement of our delegation.

"…and Baron of Reikland," Meister Orin finished solemnly, proud of his role as master of ceremonies.

"We are most pleased to welcome you to the heart of the Tree. I would offer you seats, but alas, the Council Hall was not designed with chairs for guests," said the elf seated at the center of the chamber. She was likely the head of the council, or something close to it. Despite her youthful appearance, I could feel Astarot's appetite stirring; the demon was drooling quite audibly at the thought of such a well-aged delicacy.

"Quiet," I hissed at him under my breath, continuing to study the rest of the council members.

All clean-shaven… though perhaps they simply couldn't grow beards. Youthful, slender, long-eared, and eerily alike. Maybe it was the result of a small population and too much inbreeding, or perhaps a human eye simply couldn't tell them apart. Luckily, thanks to the demon, I could distinguish them "by taste," sensing who among them was older.

That was why I was slightly surprised when the youngest one spoke first—and not to me, but to the Elder herself.

"Before we begin, I would like to raise a matter for today's agenda—my question to the dwarven delegation present here!"

"I have no strong reason to forbid you," the Elder nodded, though from her suddenly frosty tone, she clearly wished she could. "You may ask, but I remind you that our guest is under no obligation to answer."

"Ahem! Dwarves! Behold this young ent larva!" he declared theatrically, producing from the floor a wooden caterpillar the size of a cat. Faceted eyes, a pair of massive mandibles, and chitinous plates made it look disturbingly like an armadillo. Ugh. Revolting.

"I wish to show this to all members of the Council! While you choose to ignore the dwarves cutting our defenseless branches for sap, our larvae are starving!" He flung his arms wide, while the caterpillar, quite contradicting his claim, happily belched up something rubbery, releasing an acidic smell. Well, at least that stench would drown out the damp and mold.

Wait… sap, he said? Ah, that explained it.

Meister Orin's eyes lit up—he understood too.

"So, what the adult tree spiders spit depends only on whether they're hungry or not! A discovery!" he exclaimed, but I shook my head.

"Hardly one that will interest anyone."

"Yes, unfortunately... But I must write it down in my book."

Meanwhile, the elf was not done. Forgetting about us entirely, he began unleashing a storm of accusations at other Council factions for ignoring the sap-harvesting issue. Another elf rose to answer him, and the discussion quickly descended toward full-blown chaos.

"...I call it not merely theft, but sabotage of our defensive potential!"

"Perhaps you've forgotten that your family is responsible for overseeing the ents?"

"According to the Fifth Charter, the branches of the Great Tree are not classified as ents—"

"Yes, but the Third Amendment clearly states that—"

"This will take a while. If you wish, I can fetch you something to eat," Lariel whispered in my ear.

"No, I came here for answers, not for food or endless bickering," I replied, clapping my hands loudly to seize their attention.

"Gentlemen! True, we still collect sap, but I wouldn't say the scale of extraction is noticeable compared to the size of the forest. Still, the demand for rubber is rising quickly, and larger production requires more harvesting. Yet since we have now established diplomatic relations, I am prepared to offer a trade agreement."

"Ha! Trade. Dwarves do love trade. Tell me, what could you possibly offer us?" the protector of larvae said haughtily, sweeping his arm dramatically toward the chamber.

"Indeed, we have everything one could need for a good life!" the rest of the quarrelers chimed in almost in unison.

"Really? I can offer you pumps," I said, kicking up the water for emphasis. "Or chairs. And mold repellent. Perhaps even carpets... or proper pets that cough up hairballs instead of acid."

"Such a treaty would take years, perhaps decades, to draft," the Elder noted diplomatically.

"Very well, then I'll expand harvesting today, and you can spend the next hundred years debating what to do about it," I concluded.

A silence falls over the hall. The disputants exchange glances, no longer very eager to continue their political squabbles. It seems I have captured their attention.

"I suppose you did not come here to discuss trade," the Elder says after a long pause. Though she pretends not to have heard what was said earlier, her voice has grown cold.

Pff. Broadly speaking, they have little to offer me.

At the start of my journey I would have been interested in treaties, in peace to secure my rear and protect myself from attack. Now their enclave no longer poses a threat to me — I could destroy it at any moment. Even rubber sap, important as it is to industry... no one would stop me from taking it by force.

Only in one thing do the elves still remain useful to me.

"That is correct. My envoy will discuss trade, and we will discuss our mutual problems with the Dome."