Vol 8, Chapter 24

◆ First Duchy, Castle of Baron Manus ◆

Morning. The cawing of crows echoed above the fortress walls.

A crow, comfortably perched on the shoulder of a hanged man, lifted its head nervously. From the snow-clad forest surrounding the castle on three sides, its kin were taking off—more and more of them. The neighboring crows that had roosted on the corpses hanging from the battlements grew restless too. One rose into the air, then the whole flock followed, blotting out the dawn sun for a heartbeat.

"Goddamn birds," cursed a guard, shielding his face from the onslaught of wings.

He had been shouting at them all day yesterday, trying to drive them off the executed deserters bodies; but the brazen birds had ignored him. Yet now they had all flown away. Whatever had scared them?

No sooner had the clatter of wings died down than he noticed a strange rumble—more like a roar. Something unlike anything he had ever heard.

He knew, with certainty, that it was coming closer; very fast.

In less than a minute something like an iron carriage thundered along the forest road, kicking up a blizzard behind it. The guard had no time even to cry out, let alone make out the thing. In seconds it tore across the clearing and crashed into the massive gate like a practiced battering ram.

The wood splintered with a crack, steel bands warped, nails were ripped out by the roots and hinges popped from the masonry; the very wall trembled, forcing the guard to clutch the battlement.

The intruder careened into the inner courtyard and the roar only grew louder. Peering through the arrow slit, the guard saw two more such beasts bearing down.

"Drop the grille! Lower the portcullis! Raise the bridge!"

In the keep a catch was instantly kicked out of its gear, and the massive barrier began to fall. The carriage sped across the bridge and leapt onto the shattered remains of the gate; it was moving so fast that no one could tell which would happen first — the portcullis falling or the machine breaking through.

Iron met iron. The portcullis missed its slots by a fraction of a second, but the machine was a heartbeat too slow to slip beneath it.

Headlights smashed into a thousand pieces, cannon barrels buckled, the grille's thick teeth gouged the radiator, yet the armored vehicle had momentum. An unimaginably powerful impact battered the wall; stone sockets exploded, and part of the keep collapsed. Frozen masonry failed, blocks rained down as debris, and the damaged machine dragged the buckled grille into the inner ward.

The guards strained at the miraculously intact winch, not noticing that a portion of the keep's wall had simply fallen behind them. Suddenly the handle slipped from their hands; no matter how hard they pulled, they could not raise the bridge even an inch. The taut chains threatened to snap.

One guard abandoned the capstan and peered through the arrow slit to understand why... he found the answer. A third carriage stood placidly on the drawbridge, its weight holding it down. The cylindrical head turned toward the slit and fire flared.

The keep's walls were splattered with blood. The guards ducked, trying to fall back from the metal-spitting embrasures; there was no such cover from the inner courtyard.

Under the crossfire only a few managed to reach the keep. Metal shrieked as it ricocheted off stone; dry clicks knocked chips from the grille's teeth, plucking bodies from between them. A moment of silence, then a thunderous crash. Realizing they could not reach the wall-guards with the machine gun, the gunner switched to the autocannon.

One by one the grille's teeth were smashed to pieces as if struck by a giant's sledgehammer; the shelter lost entire sections of wall. Shot after shot—five, ten—then silence. Heat haze rose from the overheated barrel and the monster stilled for a moment.

The second machine tried fruitlessly to jettison the grille; bluish fluid oozed from its broken front onto the cobbles. It was wounded, not fatally for now. Alarm spread through the citadel; more guards took up positions at the embrasures. Though the outer walls had fallen under the furious assault, the citadel remained a fortress within a fortress.

Cautiously aiming his crossbow from cover, the guard pulled the trigger. The first bolt clinked tentatively against iron armor, then another, then another. Soon dozens of iron needles rattled on the armor to no avail. Beneath the clatter a new magazine slid into place.... bang!

The gun resumed firing, blowing stone chips from the citadel and shattering the stone arches of the embrasures. Soon the second gun joined in; the remaining machine, having fought through the rubble, took part in the clearing. Across the bridge people were already coming through—dark shapes with rifles and peasants armed with whatever they could find, from factory-made swords and muskets to lumbermen's axes.

More and more bullets cut through the air... but the enemy still had cards to play. In the guardhouse adjoining the citadel, a light flared. A flash and leaving a bluish trail behind, an enchanted projectile shot toward the armored carriage.

It screeched across the slanted armor, making it instantly frost over... but ricocheted and fell toward the wheels of the other vehicle, the one still struggling to shake off the grille. The thick tire came down over the glowing point, followed by a sharp, ringing crack that could be heard even amid the chaos of battle. The wheel folded inward and burst under the machine's weight, scattering frozen chunks of rubber across the courtyard. A deep crack snaked across the metal rim.

"East guardhouse! Now!" came a command from inside the armored car, distorted by the loudspeaker.

The monster's head turned, the machine gun rattled, and the guardhouse from which the enchanted bolt had come was engulfed in a storm of lead.

Pushing through the panicked crowd, several soldiers were already running there. A point-blank shot blew the door latch apart, followed by grenades flying inside. Explosions thundered, and then torrents of fire burst from the guardhouse—too fierce to be caused by simple fragmentation  grenades.

Another crossbowman appeared in a half-ruined opening of the citadel. A soldier instantly raised his rifle and fired... missed! The bullet cracked into the stone beside him, the crossbowman recoiled from the stone chips and fired at random. Bolt lazily drifted down for nearly a second before embedding itself in the cobblestones between the two armored vehicles.

For long seconds the tip of the bolt glowed, heating until it turned blinding white. Even the peasants who had never heard of enchanted bolts seized the moment and scattered.

An explosion! Those who hadn't managed to run far enough were knocked off their feet. The armored car rocked; two wheels briefly lifted off the ground. A soldier fell to his knees but immediately raised his rifle again.

At first glance, his weapon seemed barely changed from its earlier form. Only at first. A slap of his palm—the snuffbox-like breech snapped open upward, ejecting a large steel casing. Another round slid instantly into place. With a single motion he closed the bolt and cocked the hammer. Target! Fire!

Streams of smoke burst from the muzzle brake. Even through armor, the stock slammed against his shoulder—the price of its new power.

The crossbowman was still drawing his crossbow when the large-caliber bullet struck his chest. Not even a fine cuirass could stop it, let alone chainmail. The body tumbled from the ruined opening. The autocannon roared.

The inner courtyard filled with choking smoke—the bolt had ignited the fluid leaking from the shattered radiator. The damaged vehicle's front burst into flames. Ignoring the whistling bolts around him, the driver climbed out through the hatch and tried to douse the fire, pouring some kind of white powder from a metal cylinder.

The gunfire was thinning out; despite their advantage in height and cover, the defenders in the citadel were fewer with every minute. The instant a crossbow peeked from an embrasure, a heavy-caliber shot hammered back at it.

With each passing minute the castle's central building gained more holes. Its masonry was not nearly as strong as its gates.

The citadel's solid-iron doors looked even sturdier than those on the outer wall. The short staircase wouldn't let an armored vehicle ram them, but did it need to?

Ignoring the smoke, the shouting, and the ongoing fight, Len climbed onto the armored car.

"Bring the powder barrels here!"

Two barrels were set down neatly before the metal doors—to be sure, with a margin.

Kurt's still-intact armored car backed away, its wheels slipping on the blood-slick cobbles. The peasants, already keeping to the rear, moved even farther back. Len made sure no one was nearby and personally lit the fuse.

An explosion!

The gates were driven deep into the citadel; the fortress shook and partially collapsed, burying the inner courtyard beneath its debris.

As the rumble of falling stones faded, silence fell. The soldiers aimed their guns at the citadel's embrasures, waiting for any sign of movement. As if the blast had swept away the last defenders… though more likely, they had retreated deeper inside.

Medics dragged the wounded aside—among them Dimitriy. A soldier tightly bandaged a bolt buried in his knee.

"Wash it with moonshine!" Len ordered.

"I already hate this moonshine," Dimitriy muttered as the bandages around his leg darkened with blood.

"But it's still useful."

The hatch of the armored car opened, and Kurt emerged, revolver in hand. He looked at the burning vehicle and frowned.

"Damnation, looks like I'll have to report losses. What do you think—would the transmitter work best on top of the citadel?"

"The battle isn't over yet," Len reminded him.

"It's almost done on our end. The rest is your job, but we'll have your back. So... are you coming?" He gestured invitingly toward the breach blown open by the charges.

Len pressed his lips together but nodded. They had to do this themselves, they couldn't pass it off to others. Brandishing the pistol and sword taken from Rik, he rallied the people to close ranks. Stirred by his words, the peasants filed through the gap one by one, raising their hands to shield themselves from falling stone chips.

Inside everything was coated in gray dust: the red carpet, the tapestries torn by the blast, the shattered furniture, the bodies.

One of the peasants immediately dropped his sword to snatch a silver candlestick. Another rummaged through the wreckage for anything of value. Len winced at Kurt's disapproving snort; Kurt's soldiers had behaved with more discipline, but he made no effort to stop the townsfolk.

This wasn't looting, after all. It was expropriation of ill‑gotten bourgeois property in favor of the working collective. Put simply, they were just taking back what was rightfully theirs.

But why did nobody try to stop them? Had everyone died in the blast?

They'd pushed back far enough, but dead servants and guards still lay about, not a single survivor. Len dropped to his knees beside one body. At first glance there were no visible wounds; something was wrong. He rose and waved his hand, ordering a side door to be broken in.

The black wooden door was stout and resisted the axes, but it couldn't stand up to the tool that split such timber every day. After a couple of minutes of battering it gave way, opening a passage. A nearby soldier snatched up a grenade, ready to hurl it into the room, but there was no need. Behind the door—no living soul.

Len peered inside. It looked like the servants' quarters, but the bodies were those of guards. One, two, four. And blood. A lot of blood.

You didn't have to be a genius to see they'd been stabbed; the explosion had nothing to do with it. And since the blood had already clotted, they'd been killed not just minutes ago.

A shot crashed down the corridor, echoing off the walls. Buckshot whistled; ceramic vases shattered with clatters. Len bolted into the corridor and ran into a peasant with a smoking musket, eyes wide as if he'd frightened himself with his own shot.

"There was someone! At the end of the corridor!" the man blurted.

"And I'd prefer you not to shoot again," a loud voice answered.

"Are you familiar with firearms?" Len asked sharply.

"Of course."

"Probably a one of our undercover agents," Kurt whispered, lowering his revolver.

"You can show yourself! My men will not shoot anymore!" Len shouted, then softer, "Lower — lower your barrels."

The crowd, bristling with muskets, reluctantly lowered their guns but kept their blades ready. Satisfied they had put their pieces away, a tall Hardan man nearly two meters high stepped into the corridor.

He was dressed as a servant, but his chiseled features made him look like a marble statue. He nodded, beckoning the mob to follow.

"Let's not waste time. The Baron rages in the throne room and can't leave because we hid his prosthetics. It was difficult; we barely persuaded them to send them for repair. Unfortunately, poisoning the Baron failed because of his paranoia, though our alchemists concocted a very interesting mixture that would have stripped him of his power for a time. So kill him quickly and without a shred of doubt. Even though he's crippled, he's still a senior adept, master of his Gift, and he can wipe out a couple hundred peasants with ease."

"And his guards?" someone began.

"They're paid off, some of them. We've taken care of that. Resistance remains only on the upper floors of the citadel, and that will be finished soon. Right now the Baron sits like an idiot on his throne and can only demand his prosthetics back."

The Hardan flung open the doors to the throne room with a jerk and cursed.

"Shit…"

Baron Manus stood half‑turned before his throne, shirtless, engrossed in throttling a servant. Straps from the metal arm coiled over his muscular chest. His family shield and sword lay on the stone floor, and even the metal foot was in place, allowing him to walk.

With a sickening crack a neck snapped and he tossed the body aside.

"So…" he said calmly as he saw the Hardan, and sneered, "Bring me some armor and I'll reward you, as I rewarded this fool — with a quick death for betraying his lord!"

But all his mocking composure evaporated the moment he noticed muskets in the peasants' hands.

"You… you…" he stammered, unable to find words; his face flushed and his body trembled with fury.

"Fire, fire!" Len ordered, sweeping his pistol up.

But the crowd froze with fear. Deeply ingrained across generations and soaked in blood, their learned helplessness held them back. Standing before the Baron, the mob needed time to overcome itself, to overcome old habits. His furious outrage at their disobedience seemed so natural and right that some even doubted themselves. After a long delay, the crowd followed Len's example…

Yet a second's hesitation, a second of the terror that struck them, made it too late.

A sudden impulse tore muskets from hands. A volley cracked through the air, knocking candles from the chandelier and ricocheting off the high ceiling. Kurt grabbed at a wrist twisted by a revolver. A magical shock seized soldiers by their metal cuirasses and hurled them, tossing the crowd into a jumbled heap. Only Len discovered, to his surprise, that though the pistol seemed about to be torn from his grip, he could hold on to it. He seized it with both hands (Rik's sword, torn from his other hand, had already been flung somewhere beneath the ceiling). Painfully, he brought the muzzle to bear on the Baron and squeezed the trigger.

Shot! Immediately another!

The first bullet buried itself in a collarbone — too high. The second struck the metal hand, throwing sparks and ricocheting aside. Manus changed position instantly and covered himself with the iron arm like a shield. A few more wild shots brought no success; the recoil tipped the muzzle too far up. Len lost fractions of a second re‑aiming, Manus didn't waste them. The shield on the floor leapt up and sheltered his head.

Len bit his lip and sent a round into the unprotected leg, the narrow band of thigh between the metal arm and the prosthetic foot. The bullet tore through muscle. A miss — he should have hit bone.

Even so, the Baron dropped to a knee, entirely shielded from further fire.

A heavy shield would have been pierced by a musket ball, but a pistol could not penetrate it... not even at point‑blank range. The only option was to outflank him. Deciding this, Len broke into a run to circle the opponent, but before he had taken five steps he saw the shield hurtling toward him at enormous speed.

The Baron made his move.

A slow, drawn beat of his heart. Len feverishly ran through his options. He could not dodge; the Baron would simply steer the shield toward him. Given the shield's speed, survival seemed impossible. Could he take the blow and live? No. Whether the projectile killed him outright or shattered his bones, the Baron would finish him on the next strike. Shots into the shield wouldn't slow it enough; it came like a train.

So only one option remained: to leave the pistol for another warrior.

Len gripped the handle with all his might until the word "Equality" was imprinted on his palm. The pistol had made them equal to the Baron; it had given a chance at an honest fight. If he'd aimed better and hit the head with the first shot, he would have won.

But that did not matter. No baron, no aristocrat could now win: aristocrats were few, they were hundreds. Someone else would pick up his weapon and finish the job. Even if one man fell, another would take his place.

Suddenly the stone blocks underfoot shifted and catapulted him aside. Len was thrown; the shield crashed into a stone wall that had appeared from nowhere. Its wielder lay exposed.

Len emptied the magazine before gravity slammed him into the flagstones. A blow hit him. Ignoring his catching breath and the pain in his side, he rose and reloaded on the move. The empty rectangular magazine of light alloy struck the stone; he inserted a new one and slid the metal frame.

Len closed in on the bleeding Manus and aimed with difficulty. The pistol jerked in his hand as if maddened, repeatedly driving the muzzle upward — not from nerves but because the Baron tried to influence the weapon. Yet the silvery alloy proved surprisingly resistant to his power.

"Ser-r-rf," he snarled through his teeth, his face twisted in black hatred, not at Len but at the weapon he held.

A shot. A yellow casing clattered loudly across the stone.

The unseen force released the pistol, yielding to the new power: the power that could equalize men and mages. The power of gunpowder.

But the fight was not his alone. Someone had saved him, knocking the shield from its course. Len turned and saw the hardan, brushing stone dust from his palms. The blocks at his feet had been ripped apart, as if an invisible worm had burrowed beneath them. A hardan mage, an earth mage to be precise. A rare sight; even among ordinary peasant families, mages appeared a hundred times more often than among the Hardan.

"Good work… If not for the part when you missed the moment to finish him with a single coordinated volley. But perhaps that's for the best?" the Hardan said calmly as he approached the Baron's body.

He bent, pressed his palm to the flagstones, and peeled away a block as if it had stuck to his hand—well, actually, it had.

The stone flowed, becoming a blade. One swing, and Baron Manus's head separated from his body.

"Take it with us. Colonel Kurt, your undercover agent awaits you on the citadel roof."

"Wait... Then who are you, exactly?" the commander grunted, rubbing his injured wrist.

"My name is David. I was the one who cut the ties in the ritual hall, disabling the magic shield, and I weakened the castle's masonry. You didn't really think it was that fragile on purpose, did you? This fortress has been part of the Duchy for only a short time and hasn't had the chance to rot away like everything else under the First… Come upstairs; I can hear through the stone that the upper floors are already cleared."

Tucking the head under his arm, he made for the stairs; Len followed. Each landing reeked of blood, but living people were there too: servants and guards, castle craftsmen and even a few knights. Almost all held swords stamped with the familiar Reikland marks. It seemed some of the weapons had indeed been put to use as planned.

The stairs led to the roof. Two Hardans in servant's clothes were erecting a telescopic antenna; beside them lay a box—the transmitter, identical to the one Len had used to send his signal. Kurt snorted, pulled a notebook from the inside pocket of his tunic, and began hunting for the right sequence to send.

Far above, in the clouds, floated the destination for their signal: a colossal sack‑shaped airship.

"Mount it on the pike," David ordered, handing them the head.

"I doubt they'll be able to make out a head from the city at that distance," one of the servants objected.

"That doesn't matter; they won't need to see the features to know whose it is. Prepare the flag."

With great reverence the Hardans unfurled the pre‑prepared standard: a snow‑white banner, like their hair, bearing a golden star—gold, after all, the eternal symbol of the Hardan people.

The banners of Baron Manus were torn down from the citadel's summit, and in their place the white‑and‑gold flag of Hardania fluttered proudly.

Len frowned. They had stormed the castle together, yet the Hardans raised their banner as if it were their exclusive spoil. He whispered an order to one of the peasants, and soon a second flag appeared beside the white‑and‑gold: a bloody red banner.

In truth it was just a sheet stained with the Baron's blood, but it was an important emblem; a sign that it was not only the Hardans who had risen.

A sudden gust whipped the blood-stained cloth onto the white flag, and blood spread in red rivers across it. David nodded calmly, accepting the gesture. Why spoil relations with allies when cooperation could be mutually beneficial?

"In our world there is still a country called the Commonwealth, but… Monsieur Len, what would you say if we called ours 'the Union'?"