Vol 8, Chapter 23

◆ Border of the First Duchy, Recruit Camp, Rostislav POV ◆

Far from what Rostislav had imagined a holy campaign against the undead, demons, and traitors of mankind would be. He had pictured valiant battles! A wall of shields and knightly cavalry smashing the enemy like a hammer while the infantry held the line, acting as the anvil.

Glory, honor and… of course, good drink. Maybe even wine!

But in the end…

Cold and total boredom.

After being given a token silver coin, a rusted hauberk patched no fewer than ten times and stained with old blood, and a decent meal — they were loaded back into the wagon. Half a day's travel later the driver simply dumped them with Kin in the middle of a burned-out village right on the duchy border.

There was almost none of what was necessary here. Not even tents to keep out the snow and wind. Only charred blackened thin logs dusted with white caps and nearly a hundred similarly lost recruits.

It became harder by the day to remember that a village had once stood here. Each day more wagons brought fresh men and each needed a fire not to freeze to death. The recruits quickly burned through most of the wooden ruins for fuel. In dozens they huddled around smoldering, foul-smelling bonfires, cooking tasteless porridge. The faces and armour of the would-be warriors were slowly but steadily covered with soot, as was the snow around them. Soon the whole village looked like a grey fireground; you could no longer tell snow from ash. Rostislav rather liked it in a way. Instead of brown-rust tones, their army now had an ominous black look.

Sometimes knights came for an inspection; then their entire crowd was hurried into uneven ranks while the visitors evaluated the soldiers with grave expressions.

The first time it happened, Rostislav thought training would start soon, but no. After counting heads and noting down numbers, the riders simply rode off, leaving the recruits to their own devices.

Their supervision was nominal at best; they were strictly forbidden only to leave the village, and otherwise left to themselves.

Some even tried to train on their own, but Rostislav snorted as he watched their pathetic attempts. He had spent his whole life chopping the hardest wood in the world — could the undead or demon-worshippers really be tougher than that? Ha, thrice. He would chop all the scum down with a single sweep!

Besides, for now the real danger wasn't being stabbed at night (that happened often enough) but simply freezing to death in your sleep.

There were only two more or less intact buildings in the whole village: a barn where grain was kept and into which no one was allowed, and the stables.

One could catch a nap in the stables among the warm straw (and warm manure), but soldiers were driven out from there. Apparently the Duke thought the horses needed a roof more than they did... More likely he simply didn't think about such trifles at all. A great man, after all, ponders strategy — not matters as petty as some frost.

The cold that had already chilled them to the bone was amplified by the rusted mail. Kin had long since taken his off, but Rostislav was afraid to — it might be stolen. Also, what if someone decided to stick a knife into his side? Conflicts occurred more and more often, not from hunger but from sheer boredom. Ah, Dimitry was right: to wage war in winter is to lose your fingers. On the other hand, what choice was there? To starve in the village? With each subsequent delivery the recruits grew thinner and thinner, while he, on the contrary, had even put on a little fat. Lovely.

Having pushed his felt boots practically into the fire, he stretched. The mail rings, cold and stuck together, creaked plaintively. He longed for the march so he could eat in proper human dwellings instead of crouching by a pit fire like a dog!

"Look, the guards by the barn have left." Kin kicked his leg.

Indeed, the guards at the barn were gone.

"Hm, I wonder where they slipped off to…"

"Who cares? Let's go, let's go!" Kin prodded him and edged toward the barn with a sideways shuffle.

Rostislav followed him. He understood his comrade's intentions at the first step. He didn't even ask "why," though in the army they were fed fairly well. It wasn't about the "why"!

If there was an opportunity to steal something, you had to steal it. What to do with it afterward was another matter! Besides, you can never have too much grain — a reserve never hurts.

Having made up his mind about what he was doing, Rostislav grinned broadly. He even remembered the words of a strange newcomer who had recently turned up in their camp about communal property… Rostislav hadn't quite grasped what was meant back then, but… it seemed the idea was that if you needed something, you could take it from someone who had plenty. A good idea. Sensible.

The granary was the newest structure in the burned-out village. Its clay walls made it look like a giant pot. Just begged to be smashed…

While his comrade fumbled at the doors, Rost circled to the back, glanced around a couple of times, and then kicked the wall with all his might! It dented, but held. The failure only spurred the thief on. Snatching up his axe, he struck the wall several times until it gave way. A cascade of golden grain poured at his filthy feet. Delightful!

But before he could stuff his pockets, he heard a strange sound. Something unpleasant, like the whine of a mosquito.

"Hey, Kin, hear that? Like someone whistling. Was that you?"

"What am I doing?"

But he never got his answer.

A bright flash seared his eyes and Rost was swept away by a golden torrent. The avalanche of wheat carried him a dozen meters like a raging river. The chaff clogged his nose, the grain crammed his mouth so he couldn't breathe, and his ears rang like church bells.

A crash. The stench of burning. His back ached as if a sergeant had beaten him with a plank. With great effort Rost crawled out of the wreckage. The bonfires had been scattered across the field, embers smoldering here and there. Gray smoke rose, veiling the land and rolling down into earth torn by black craters. Some unknown force had ripped it apart, flinging frozen soil everywhere. Steam seemed to rise from the ground itself, acrid and sharp in smell. Through the haze came cries and a sinister hum — faint at first, but steadily, inexorably approaching.

An attack? A monster?

Rost looked around for his axe, but there was no finding it now.

The sounds drew closer. Far too fast, as if whatever made them was galloping — no, faster still!

Two burning eyes pierced the smoke with their beams, sweeping the field. In a moment the armored bulk crawled out of the haze. Huge, the size of a wagon, a monster sheathed in armor. Its plating seemed seamless, covering the whole of it like a motionless statue. And its shape… What kind of chimera lurked beneath that steel shell? Hunched, caterpillar-like? An insect? A snail? A cylindrical head with two protrusions — antennae or spikes. Eyes blazing so bright it hurt to look. And instead of legs, the creature pressed the earth with broad wheels, like a cart.

A desperate scream rang out nearby. One of the recruits, unable to bear the horror it radiated, charged it. Stumbling over bodies, waving his sword, trying to master his fear. The rusty blade posed no real threat to the monster… but it reacted instantly. Its head tilted slightly, and one of its short antennae flared with fire.

A drumroll, followed by sharp, dry clicks. Gray snow spurted into fountains as if lifted by invisible fingers. The warrior was swatted aside like a bug, his rusty sword torn from his hand.

Rostislav dropped flat, scrambling to crawl away.

No way. He'd signed up to gallantly strike down feeble demonologists who'd never hefted anything heavier than a quill, scrawny necromancer elders, and rotting undead falling to pieces... — not steel chimeras!

He didn't even think of finding his axe — it was clear it wouldn't help. Instead, without breaking stride, he hastily stuffed his pockets with grain, even crammed some under his shirt. The glowing eyes swept the fog, piercing the haze, which was already thinning, shrinking his chances of surviving. His hands warmed by fire, Rostislav suddenly realized he had crawled to the remains of a bonfire where a log still burned brightly.

The solution came at once. If there wasn't enough smoke — then make more. Without hesitation, he seized the scorching log and hurled it into the grain. The chaff caught fire instantly, the kernels blackening, filling the air with smoke and stench… reminded him of the old days when burnt porridge was thrown to the dogs…

Ah yes, Kin. Maybe he was somewhere under the grain too. Well…

If he's not a fool, he'll get out on his own.

With those thoughts Rostislav crawled toward the forest, as more and more monsters, growling thunderously, gathered in the village.

Had he lingered longer, he would have seen ordinary wagons follow them, full of men just like himself. But that he never saw. The forest he had been striving for had already been claimed by the Baron's retinue, who had been the first to learn of the enemy's approach, and cowardly enough to use that knowledge otherwise than intended.

At that very moment they were discussing how they would explain to Manus that they had survived despite the militia's utter defeat. Needless to say, they were delighted to find a deserter.

Binding Rostislav tight, those brave retainers, who had "stood to the last against the enemy and tried to stop the cowardly recruits" (whose cowardice, of course, had lost the battle), set out for the Baron's castle.

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

"I'm not going near that thing," Dimitry declared flatly, pulling the door shut more tightly after peeking outside.

The snarling sounds of the engine outside died away, and everyone grew a little calmer.

"Do you want me to go alone?" Len asked.

The others packed into the barrack nodded in agreement.

With a sigh, he opened the door and trudged through the snow toward the halted machine. Although the armored vehicle was considerably smaller than the train, it was still enough to put the peasants into a stupor. He admitted he felt uneasy himself. He had heard such things would soon appear in the army, but hearing about them and seeing one were different matters.

Feeling a hundred eyes on him, Len deliberately rapped on the cold metal.

"Who's there? Password!" a voice bellowed from inside.

"What password?" he answered in surprise.

"Password!" the voice insisted, barely audible above the engine's roar.

"Hm. Freedom?"

"That'll do," the voice replied.

The hatch on the turret opened and Colonel Kurt's grinning face appeared.

"Is that a land‑dragon?" Olaf shouted from a distance when he saw a human head poking out of the steel behemoth.

"You could say! It runs on spirits, like your old dad," Kurt laughed.

"It's a machine," Len clarified, before the joking soldier could confuse everyone.

"Ah… did their metal mages make it?"

Kurt shook his head vehemently.

"Can a man make something like that?" Olaf asked skeptically.

Len expected Kurt to say that magic had helped and that one day ordinary folk might make such devices themselves, but to his surprise Kurt answered with calm certainty.

"Mark my words: a man is capable of anything."

Len nodded. After a moment he realized Kurt was right. Much of what mages used to do seemed impossible, and now ordinary people did it. The mages only accelerated the process, nothing more. A common man could do far more than people assumed. You only needed to pool effort.

"Well, will the others just stand there?" He nodded toward the peasants peeking out of the barracks.

"Weren't you scared to approach this thing the first time you saw it?" the driver's voice came reproachfully from deep within the machine.

"Shut up, Bubble, don't ruin my authority," Kurt snapped.

"Maybe they'll come…" Len shrugged. "If there's food."

"There's food, but the caravan is a bit delayed. They've only got a couple of horses hitched; we've got an entire herd under the hood!" the colonel boasted.

In truth, the caravan was only a little behind. No sooner had Kurt finished speaking than a covered wagon clad in metal appeared on the village outskirts. The coachman held the reins in one hand and a revolver in the other. Another followed, and then another…

Len waved his arms, urging the drivers to stop closer to the barracks. The wagon doors opened and a few soldiers piled out. Len thought there were suspiciously few of them. Peeking inside, he saw most of the wagons filled with crates, barrels, and sacks.

"Unload, but only food for now," Kurt ordered as he climbed out of the armored vehicle's hatch.

The soldiers disappeared into the wagons again, and at the word "food" the peasants surged forward. They didn't fear the regular horses pulling an ordinary cart the way they feared the armored machine. The first sack of potatoes was ripped open almost instantly; the tubers moved swiftly from hand to hand, some people even biting into them raw.

"No, no! After such a long famine you can't eat too much! Especially raw! Drag the cauldron out — we'll boil it for everyone right away!"

But even Len's voice could hardly break through the uproar. With every new distribution the crowd only grew more excited.

Kurt shook his head and casually laid a hand on his revolver just in case.

"Yeah, I've seen the chaos that happens when foragers strip a village bare, but I've never seen the opposite!" he muttered.

"Did you ever share food with townsfolk when billeted?" Dmitry asked calmly.

"For quartering, or for other, ahem, services—we shared. But just out of the kindness of our hearts? Never... Until now." Kurt paused for emphasis, but…

"I'd like to know right away what we owe you," the other interrupted, surveying the food distribution with an eloquent look.

"I repeat: if any soldier demands… some extra warmth in exchange for his ration—come to me. I'll deal with it."

"That's a detail. I meant — what is required of us all?"

A scuffle broke out in the crowd, which Len quickly put an end to. Meanwhile, the cauldron, blackened even more by the fire, was rolled out from the cellar... but still intact.

"Were you a mercenary or part of a militia?" Kurt asked.

"That's irrelevant. What matters is that armies usually collect forage from villages, not hand it out."

"Most of the cargo is weapons. For you. Will that answer suffice?" Kurt pulled a flask from his belt and offered it to the elder. The man waved it away.

"I've had enough of spirits."

"Tea. Strong. Sweet."

Dimitry took the flask and took a sip.

"What a nasty brew. Bitter as a radish."

"Perhaps. But I have nothing else to offer."

"Nothing else…" Dimitry repeated, clearly meaning something more.

Meanwhile a soldier poured a little fuel from a canister onto the fire. The blaze beneath the cauldron flared instantly.

They pulled the last sack of potatoes from the wagon and began unloading the crates. Some were short and stout, others long and narrow.

"Dimitry, make sure they don't overeat — otherwise they'll be dead by morning," Len shouted, and the elder nodded in agreement.

Everyone knew that gorging after a famine was almost as dangerous as the hunger itself. But resisting the temptation was hard.

Len delegated his authority and approached the colonel.

"And that's all the food? This will barely last a week… even if we ration."

"Yes. They say there's more in the Baron's castle," Kurt replied with a hint. "We'll hand out the weapons after everyone eats."

"How much time do we have to prepare?"

"We march at dawn."

"Dawn? You expect me to teach these people to shoot in one night?"

"There aren't musket balls in the wagons, only buckshot. I don't demand guard standards of speed and accuracy. All they need to do is point the barrel at the enemy and pull the trigger."

Len shook his head dubiously.

"Storm a castle with a ragtag crowd of peasants and without artillery… How many real soldiers did you bring? Ten?"

Kurt walked over to the armored vehicle and slapped its steel flank.

"Two more of these little ones will join the assault from neighboring villages. Each of them, in firepower, will replace a regiment of riflemen. If you had three regiments under your command, would you bet even a copper that the castle would hold out?"

"Walls. Gates. A steel lattice… A citadel that we'll have to take on foot in any case. There aren't enough soldiers for a siege, even if they have weapons of the new model…"

"If we do it quickly—we'll pass through like a knife through butter. They won't even have time to come to their senses," Kurt said flatly. "Do you doubt our success?"

"I don't doubt we'll take the castle. I doubt at what cost… These people must not die."

"They won't die. And if they do—then that's their fate. You can't fight without risking life."

Len sighed and turned to the crowd.

"They're standing on the doorstep… To die a step away from freedom is…"

"You're attached to them. I get it. Do you know how many of us there were when I led men out of Bathori lands? Hundreds. Her overseers hunted us. They chased us with dogs, and even when we reached the Goblin Wood, some aristocrat intercepted us. Do you know how many of those who threw torches into her mansion with me made it to this day?"

"Dozens?" Len guessed.

"It doesn't matter," Kurt answered harshly.

"What?"

"It doesn't matter how many survived. It was worth it. Period. Remember that."

A few minutes passed in silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the agitated murmur of the crowd.

"Ahem. All right, let's not end on a grim note—I've got something for you. Hey, Bubble! Bring out that thing." Kurt knocked his fist on the armor.

The machine roared to life so fiercely that the peasants were knocked off their feet and scattered.

"Bar‑r‑ran, you bug‑eyed fool, trying to show off?"

"I accidentally hit the lever, Commander. Don't grumble. Here."

A hand appeared from the hatch holding a fairly large leather holster.

Leaping up, Len grabbed it and immediately noticed the tight leather was smeared with something oily, with a sharp chemical scent.

"Yeah, about that… The pipes had stiffened from the cold and burst, and oil started leaking. We wiped off what we could… Anyway, here it is."

Len turned the holster in his hands. Tucked into pockets on the outside were two metal rectangles with yellowish cylinders protruding from the ends. Cartridges. No longer crudely wrapped in paper, but smooth and metallic.

He opened the holster and pulled out a strange pistol into the light. Unusually rectangular, light and flat. No bulging, clumsy cylinder, but far more complex. Some of its parts moved, springs visible beneath them.

"An experimental sample, assembled by the lord himself. There are fewer than ten in the whole county. For now… In time they'll reach us too," Kurt said, patting the ordinary revolver at his belt with envy.

Len kept turning the new weapon over in his hands.

On the silver grip was engraved 'For Meritorious Service to Reikland'. On the other side the word 'Equality'. At first he didn't understand why the motto was not engraved in full; he even turned the pistol around searching for the missing words, but soon realization struck.

Freedom cannot be given, it must be won. Brotherhood cannot be imposed; it must be cultivated from within. And equality… Equality he held in his hands.