Vol 8, Chapter 3

◆ Lothingham, Second Duke POV ◆


Sunset.

The sun slowly descended toward the lake, as if sinking into it.

Fishermen rowed toward the shore, spears in hand, suspiciously watching the orange water. Among them there was a belief that Lake Lottingham held not only fish, but black demons. Or perhaps it was fish that turned into demons? In any case, it hardly mattered.

To be honest, the Duke didn't care what kind of folklore the common folk invented. After all, the task of rulers was something else entirely… for example, to inscribe themselves into that folklore for eternity.

So why was he standing at the pier, pondering nonsense?

The question was obvious, and so was the answer: because he didn't want to go any further.

It was rare for him to have a moment to think about something trivial, so why not take advantage of it?

For instance, about the nature of power. Under the previous king, dukes had enjoyed broad autonomy. In the opinion of the Second Duke, that had been the ideal arrangement: a balance between the excessive freedom of the Commonwealth, which led to situations where the Lodge was incapable of making decisions, and the rigid dictatorship of the Theocracy, which offered not a trace of flexibility.

There must always be counterweights; balance everywhere.

Today, he had upset his own small balance.

Hm, it seemed that even when he tried to think of something unrelated, his thoughts circled back to it anyway.

If that was the case, there was no point in standing here longer. Casting one last glance at the lake, Thorn von Steiger spurred his horse toward the castle.

Some things one could not avoid, even as a Duke: such as an unpleasant conversation with a dissatisfied wife…

***
​Castle walls, the inner courtyard. A worried butler personally attended as a servant took the Duke's horse.

"My lord, the lady asked me to inform you she awaits you in the throne hall. An hour ago she also contacted a representative of the Commonwealth. I don't know what they discussed, but after that conversation, the lady was not in the best of moods."

Of course she knew. It would have been strange to expect otherwise. Still, the treaty had already been signed, and there was nothing she could do about it.

The butler hesitated, then continued:

"My family has long served your house, as did my father and his father before him. Should I prepare a bottle of rare wine, or perhaps a bouquet of crimson roses?"

Though the butler had clearly overstepped, Thorn only shook his head.

Alas, neither would help now.

"Better notify a healer to be on hand."

"It shall be done."

***

​Stone corridors. Many doors. He never knew this castle well, but the door to the throne hall could hardly be mistaken for any other.

Before entering, he paused for a moment, then pulled a small vial from his belt: a stimulant.

The choice between a healer's treatment for broken bones and an unbearable headache in the morning was difficult, but decisively he ripped off the cap and took a swallow. The herbal infusion burned his throat, slid into his stomach, and left the taste of meadow grass on his tongue.

He had almost forgotten how vile the stuff was.

Throwing the massive door open, he stepped inside.

A spacious, nearly empty hall.

The banners of noble houses hung along the walls, and beside them a host of metal shields, each bearing its own crest. Steel statues of the heads of old houses, polished with oil, stood eternal guard, watching over their descendant. It was said the oldest were not statues at all, but full-fledged golems ready to save the Third Duke from an assassin at any moment. Judging by their failure, that was just a tale.

In any case, Ariel needed no protection.

Of course she was waiting for him. Seated upon a throne draped in blue and green velvet, the colors of her house. Though etiquette forbade dukes from adorning their thrones with gold, the silver serpents twining around hers were no less impressive.

Stop. He was drifting into idle thoughts again.

An awkward silence hung in the air.

"After all these years, the hall hasn't changed a bit," the Duchess finally remarked. Her voice was calm enough, but Thorn wasn't fooled; he knew her far too well.

Still, since she hadn't leapt at him with fists at once, perhaps there was a chance to resolve things with words. The gears in his mind turned, searching for the right strategy.

"Perhaps you're right," he said conciliatorily, trying to recall the last time he had been here.

It wasn't easy; more than twenty years had passed.

"I think, when I asked for your hand, there were more shields on these walls."

A mistake. He should never have mentioned that.

Though it had been a happy memory, the necessity of asking permission for marriage from her house despite his exile from his own had been a humiliation. No wonder he had forgotten.

But that was also the day Ariel first proved everyone wrong: that despite her weakness as a mage, she had strength enough to climb to the very top.

Only it had not been enough for her.

"Yes, there were certainly more vassals then. Though even at that time, Father had already lost much of his wits," she added with regret.

"He never admitted his mistake," Thorn easily read between the lines.

"He had lost his wits long before. Otherwise, he would never have transferred you from the elder branch into the younger one," the Duke cut in sharply.

"Nevertheless, he did. He did so after listening to my darling brothers and sister. And now… now that we have finally thrown those vermin out, you decide single-handedly to bring them back⁈ Without even asking me!" Her voice broke into a scream as she clenched the serpent-headed armrests.

Silver dented beneath her fingers.

The Duke's gaze flicked to the metal shields.

"That won't help you," she said, rising from the throne.

In her white gown, she looked no less terrifying than in armor.

"My dear, you know I had reasons for this—our situational alliance is extremely profitable, especially since the other side did not oppose the deal with the First!" he rattled off quickly, edging backward toward the doors.

"I don't care. I warned you I would never accept such a decision. And you not only pushed it through behind my back—you lied! You lied about meeting with a Commonwealth envoy!"

"What else was I supposed to do, when you dig in your heels like a manticore⁈"

Instead of answering, she leaned slightly forward. A sharp tug ripped the green carpet from the floor. Thorn wasted no time, pulling every shield in the hall to him, fusing them into a wall before himself. The impact came at once!

The improvised shield wall bowed, but held. The Duke poured his strength into melding them together as one.

"You gave away a whole third of this castle!"

"Oh, come now, it's nothing but a pile of stones—our own castle is far better!"

Her fist punched through several layers of shields, metal bending outward like petals.

"Uh—fine! Fine! You wanted a year-round rose conservatory atop the keep like the Fourth has? Agreed!" he offered hastily, levitating statues to reinforce his wall.

Like humanoid pillars, they bolstered the line of shields. From the outside, it now truly looked like an infantry formation. Only, Ariel had shattered plenty of such formations in her life.

Blow after blow hammered down, tearing the shields apart. Mangled fragments clattered to the carpet, only to be dragged back by magnetism into the wall... But if a whole shield could at least absorb some of her strikes, then the fragments cobbled together into a wall simply burst apart into shrapnel under her fists!

The onslaught pressed Thorn inexorably toward the doors, but the Duke would not make a spectacle before the servants.

He retreated slowly, all the while trying to reason with her.

"Listen, my dear, enemies make deals all the time. This is just a temporary alliance against the King! I told you already—the boy is young and craves absolute power. If we demonstrate strength, he'll back down! And to do that, we must not waste our strength in pointless fights, but seal alliances instead. What is so hard to understand?"

But the only answer was the ringing of fists and the screech of metal. If anything, she redoubled her assault.

A fragment ripped free from the wall whistled through the air and buried itself deep in his arm.

"The Abyss take you, woman!" the Duke roared in fury.

He tore the shard out and flung his wounded hand wide, spraying the steel wall with blood, briefly deepening his bond with the metal. The wall bent into a semicircle and closed behind the Duchess, forming a cage. Without hesitation, he compressed the iron around her, trying to immobilize her. Useless. Each strike made the metal explode outward. He could not last long—blood was already dripping from his nose, tracing his face and beard.

And yet, a glimmer of hope—she finally spoke, though her blows never ceased.

"What's worst of all… you bargained not only with my sister, but with the Condors! I warned you what I had seen!" Her voice was still filled with rage. Even after all that exertion, she had not calmed.

Yes… her visions. Another reason for their frequent quarrels. Truthfully, he had not forgotten, but had pushed the matter aside as trivial. After all, it had been so long since he sent the Ashiran to kill the then-Viscount, and in the end nothing had come of it. More than that, despite his arrogance, the current Count had proven more reasonable and willing to negotiate than his grandfather who had renounced his title. The Duke simply saw no cause for concern. Not yet.

"Haven't your visions grown weaker of late?"

"They haven't grown weaker, there are simply fewer of them. I still see that flash, that heat… and then—emptiness. Since last year I haven't seen a single thing that happens beyond that vision. Nothing! And the day draws near, and I know for certain that Condor is somehow tied to it."

"Your visions are too vague; it may be nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy. We've already made peace, we have a common enemy. I insist we must wait, observe. The moment I see anything that points to your vision, I'll immediately…"

Another mistake. He distracted himself, trying to persuade her, though his wife clearly wasn't listening. Impact! Statues shattered, limbs flying. She broke through the barrier, closing the distance. Thorn reacted instantly, but a mage could never match a warrior's speed.

A bloodied hand clamped around his throat. At the same time, the metal surrounding her shifted its sharp edges inward, biting into her body and tearing her dress. Two shields clamped down on her muscular arm like the pincers of a crab.

For a heartbeat the pair froze, abandoning their attempts to kill one another.

"You yourself were disappointed that Father died without ever apologizing. Do you want the others dead, or do you want repentance?" The Duke felt he had found a winning argument.

Her hand slackened. At once the steel mountain collapsed, revealing her bloodied form. The throne hall lay in ruins, banners torn, shards of metal jutting from the walls.

"By the One, if you weren't so damned good with your tongue, I would have killed you," the Duchess concluded, wiping blood from her hand onto her torn dress.

"Oh, come now, you love me."

A heavy sigh filled the throne hall.

"When we're done with the King, we'll kill him," she tried to have the last word.

"We'll see…" the Duke replied.

Flame flickered in his eyes, and she stepped toward him again, ripping away the useless rags of her gown with one motion.

Round two.

***

​For the last twenty minutes the healer had lingered nervously outside the door. Judging by the sounds, his help wasn't needed, but he feared disobeying orders.

So he was relieved when he saw a servant hurrying down the corridor toward the throne hall.

"Stop!" the healer hissed, blocking his way.

"I have an urgent message for the Duke from Count Condor. He asked me to deliver it immediately, as soon as it arrived!"

"Quiet, you fool! Can't you hear?"

The servant paused, listening to the unmistakable noises. He blushed, then went pale.

"But… it's urgent…"

"Do you really want to disturb them now?"

"I'll wait here," the servant decided, realizing that punishment for a delayed message would be far less than what awaited him if he dared to enter the throne hall now.

Not knowing what to do with his hands, he fidgeted with the sealed envelope. Inside was written the location where the Theocracy's column would pass: the site of the ambush.

***************************************************************
​

Unfavorable.

That was how the Duke described the spot as soon as he arrived with his picked forces. No infantry, only knights and mages. 
When fighting priests, one must never rely on numbers; the more men you lose, the stronger you make the enemy," he remarked, surveying my soldiers, already setting up camp.

As if I didn't know that! I ignored his words, as well as his suggestion to move the ambush a few miles closer to the Commonwealth border where the forest began. True, an ambush in the open field with only a single low hill did look odd. But not so odd if you remembered the cannons.

Yes, there was a chance the camp—barely hidden on the hill's far side—might be spotted, but I categorically refused to fight in the forest.

A battle in the woods was a gamble on a single blow. If canister solved the problem, good. But if not? I would rather have open distance between my soldiers and walking tanks.

Yes, the enemy could still choose to avoid battle altogether, but no matter how sharp their eyes, they shouldn't spot us from ten kilometers away. And if they came that close, there was no way they'd haul their altar out from under artillery fire!

The patchwork hot air balloon, stitched from tents and packed tight, waited for its moment. The tiny basket could hold only two: Dolan, whose skill in gauging distances was priceless, and a signaler to direct the artillery with colored flags.

The knights had pitched their camp a little farther back. The mages had argued for a time, but in the end began preparing their circle behind the hill rather than atop it, as they'd first wanted. In the middle of the tents golden veins spread outward, the ground leveled. Time was on our side: according to calculations, the Inquisition wouldn't pass here for another two days.

The artillerymen kept training, pushing their guns up the hill at speed. Some soldiers practiced with rocket launchers, while the rest marched in formation to the nearby forest and back, carrying branches instead of weapons. Not because there was great need for it, but simply to keep them busy.

Nothing produces accidents like idleness combined with explosives!

The knights, meanwhile, simply rested, driving their servants about. Lucky men.

Even without explosives they still found ways to blow off steam: in the past ten hours there had already been three duels. One even involved a blood orb. Why anyone would drag such a heavy lump on campaign was beyond me. Apparently, I wasn't the only one thinking that—the healer cursed nonstop, clearly agreeing with me. Even though he managed to put the loser's broken body back together, the poor fool wouldn't be fighting again for at least a week.

Smoke from camp kitchens and fires rose carelessly into the sky. Fires were planned to be banned only a day before the attack. And with so many mages present, even without fires we could have kept warm. Only food would be the problem—after all, the smell of stew spreading through the area was hardly conducive to stealth.

Even Asha had gone quiet, giving a wide berth to every ducal ashirans in the camp. I don't know where this sudden burst of common sense came from, but I was very glad of it. Now she calmly channeled hot air into the balloon, which slowly swelled to the size of a house.

As long as the enemy was far off, we could safely practice targeting and corrections.

Only one thing disturbed the almost friendly atmosphere: the Duchess's grim gaze drilling into the back of my head whenever she thought I wasn't looking.

Tall, a head above her husband, she never parted with her armor or her sword, always ready for a fight. I wouldn't be surprised if she even slept in them.

"Just hot air?" the Duke asked, putting an arm around his wife's shoulders. She silently turned away.

"Exactly. Never flown a kite?"

"Only griffons."

I replied with a polite smile, watching Dolan struggle to haul his cumbersome musket into the tiny basket.

"It's just training! Leave it behind!"

"No way! I'll train with it!"

I waved a hand. So be it. Let him train. I doubted the crack of a shot could be heard even a day's march away.

The balloon slowly rose into the air, ropes straining, anchors almost torn from the earth. A pity we didn't yet have enough thunderstones. I had an idea how to use them—if it had worked, it would have truly taken off, literally and figuratively. Maybe then I wouldn't have had to send Falcon across the whole kingdom like some kind of flying taxi!

Shouts pulled me from my musings. Someone was yelling from the balloon, but it was too high to hear. The signalman, though he had only just gone up, was already waving flags furiously, demanding to be brought down at once. Dolan, instead of amusing himself with target practice, was aiming intently at something.

Men grabbed the ropes, hanging on them, trying to haul the balloon back down. It didn't work well. We were prepared for a rapid ascent, but for a rapid descent—nothing. It would take the power of a steam engine to drag down a still-hot balloon that had never dropped ballast!

I felt someone nearby reach for their own Source.

Frost spread over the balloon's fabric, and it dropped rapidly, almost falling. Nodding my thanks to Asha, I pushed forward, but there was no need to ask what had happened.

"Those bastards are already ten kilometers away!" Dolan spat, batting at the falling fabric of the balloon. "Finally heard them? Now get us back up there!"