Vol 8, Chapter 2

As soon as the seals cooled and the ink dried, life began to return to its normal course.
The peace treaty was concluded.

The lands of the fallen would be redistributed, the strongest squires promoted to knights, and the soldiers who had shown themselves best would be made squires. Alas, though this would formally restore the army, in practice it would take decades to recover its former quality.

The retinue would breathe a sigh of relief: they would return to the much safer duties of garrison service, guarding towns and castles. The few militiamen lucky enough to survive would bury their comrades, receive meager payment, and return to the fields. And the lords… the lords would count gains and losses.

That was precisely what they were already doing, gathered in the Marchioness's castle.

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◆ Lands of Marquise von Klaus, Council Hall, Count Bicon POV ◆

"Today our council is unusually quiet. Perhaps you have something to say regarding the results of the negotiations, Count Bicon?"

The Count gave a barely perceptible sigh.

The swiftly changing situation forced him to look foolish. Not long ago, under the Duke's orders, he had been compelled to speak one way, and now… now he rapidly lost face, contradicting himself. He would have preferred to remain silent, but no one would have understood.

"No, Your Excellency. I am entirely convinced this is the only correct decision in our case," he said with a stony face, provoking smiles among his own barons.

"Not long ago you promised us proof that Count Condor was connected to the death of Baroness Syrel. Do you have… new information on that matter?" the Marchioness pressed.

The recently discovered corpulent body with its heart cut out had seemed to him an excellent opportunity to smear the Count and sow discord… Who else to blame for such an obvious act of demonology, if not a demon?

But sometimes initiative punishes the initiator.

"No. Unfortunately, it seems I was mistaken."

"Very well, will you deny that you recently spread slanderous rumors claiming that Count von Condor supposedly transformed on the battlefield into a monster and tore apart a chimera as tall as a fortress wall?"

Bicon ground his teeth. Practically everyone nearby had seen it. Yet he could not continue to insist. He could not risk the Duke's wrath.

"No, I did indeed say that. It seems in the heat of battle dust got into my visor… Now I realize it was shortsighted to claim such a thing, for I did not clearly see the man who became that creature."

"I am glad you admitted your mistake. I hope you will apologize to the Count."

"Of course."

"Also… you know that the Count, in his generosity, allowed us to manage one third of Lottingham in his name. I most carefully selected vassals suitable for the role of administrators, but I fear your recent confrontation with Lord Condor and your constant… and without doubt mistaken accusations, do not allow me to put you forward for that position." The Marchioness smiled faintly as she concluded.

It was to be expected. This was the purpose of all this humiliation. The Marchioness, as always, had achieved her goal. None present would doubt such a decision, for it would be an insult to appoint to that post a man in conflict with Lord Condor.

Damnation. Of all those assembled, his, Count Bicon's, military strength was the greatest! He had secured the most advantageous position by negotiating beforehand with the Duke, and it had seemed he risked nothing. Yet in the end… in the end he had merely been left with nothing more than he had started with.

"Oh, you exaggerate, there is no conflict between us, and I am ready right now to personally apologize to Count Condor and assure him that I am fit for this post." Bicon made one last attempt to break through, but the Marchioness only shook her head coldly.

"I fear that is impossible. Count Condor is very busy."

Bicon's face twisted. Unable to hold back, he raised his voice.

"His business is so important that he ignores our council? And what is this occupation of his?"

"He is making soap." The Marchioness smiled, ending the matter.

"Excuse me, what is he doing?"

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Another round of boiling was finished, the valuable glycerin drained and sent for purification from excess lye, and the useless soap…

"Get it out of here already, damn you!"

So much soap had piled up that it could supply not only my expeditionary corps but the entire allied army!

And the problem was not that, considering the damp weather, soldiers were reluctant to wash, but in the relatively small yield of the substance I truly needed.

The soldiers, promoted to apprentices for their offenses, took up shovels and began scooping out the finished, still warm soap from the cauldron.

The cart loaded with soap rolled out through the barn gates, immediately replaced by another cart filled with chopped animal fat. The material was far from ideal, but there was no choice.

A new portion of fat splashed into the cauldron.

Bored Asha, still lounging on her chair, heated it with a wave of her hand without even standing up, continuing to swing her legs.

After watching for a few minutes as the unwilling apprentices poured in lye, and making sure they could handle it on their own, I went to check the reactor.

The iron sphere outside, to my surprise, showed no signs of life, though not long ago it had been crackling with lightning.

The thunderstone, split in half, had lasted more than three days. More than enough for my plan, but still… it turned out not to be an infinite source of energy, alas.

Having sealed the last batch of nitric acid, I peeked into the former stable, now a warehouse for finished glycerin.

The colorless, viscous liquid had been poured into whatever was available—from glass bottles to a couple of small barrels. Luckily, this stuff was completely safe. For now, safe.

Nitroglycerin, one of the most insane explosives. So powerful and temperamental it could detonate from the slightest nudge. Even spilled on silica it didn't become safe, it just turned into pure dynamite!

Producing it was easy; making it even somewhat safe was much harder. People had mixed it with anything and everything, trying to curb its tendency to detonate on its own. Charcoal, sawdust, even silica… But you could go even further and dilute it with something already explosive. Gunpowder.

The result was a jelly-like substance, about one and a half times stronger than TNT. No problems with availability or power, but the issue of safety remained, and that was the main reason I had bet on TNT. At least TNT didn't have the risk of exploding just because it had been fired from a cannon!

Still, for my design, the jelly's instability shouldn't be critical.

Carefully recounting the containers, I returned to the barn to observe the purification process. I licked the finished product, making sure there was no lye left.

Then I simply started pacing back and forth, without any real purpose.

"Enough already, stop fidgeting!" Asha protested as I circled past her.

The problem was, I wanted to be absolutely sure. And for that, I needed one substance found only hundreds of kilometers away.

So when I saw a servant in the barn doorway, I practically pounced on him.

"Has it arrived?"

"No, Your Lordship. You ordered us to search for blue dye, and after a long search…"

"How much?"

"Two pounds, my lord."

"Less than a kilogram? Forget it." I waved him away dismissively.

Indigo had been one option, but since it couldn't be found quickly or in large quantities, I crossed it off. No point wasting effort for a couple of kilograms of shimose—let them use it for its intended purpose, as dye.

I began pacing the barn again.

Of course, if things didn't work out, I had a backup option: simply dismantle some of the artillery shells. But I needed those shells too, and there was no way to get new ones for at least three weeks.

"Enough, enough! Maybe we should just launch fireworks instead?" Asha suggested, grabbing her head.

With a sigh, I agreed. It would at least be more productive than pacing back and forth, waiting for Falcon to return!

The day was damp and dreary. Clouds and wind—maybe that's why he was delayed? The nearby range bore marks of training fire. Six soldiers were drilling with practice weapons for now: thick hollow tubes, fish-shaped projectiles loaded with ordinary sand, topped with little iron fins.

Of course, rocket launchers had nothing to do with fireworks. Except for that one time when one of the early prototypes' rocket engines exploded… But after that, how could I possibly convince Asha to call them anything else? Haha. No chance.

The sergeant barked a command, and the six prepared soldiers pulled their triggers in unison. The ground behind them, already scorched by countless volleys, trembled again under a burst of flame, and the nimble projectiles shot out of the tubes, rushing toward their targets.

The rockets smashed the dummies, buried themselves in the earth, and a few simply flew past. No explosions, of course—the warheads were filled with nothing but sand. Why had I suddenly thought of bazookas, anyway?

The problem was that despite the large caliber, despite the armor-piercing bullets, despite the monstrous powder charge that would shatter the bones of anyone not wearing a cuirass and padding before they could even fire a shot... despite all this, the damned knights were still too well protected against musket fire. Thanks to their Gifts, they wore armor utterly impossible for a normal human to bear, and something had to be done about it.

When they attacked in large groups on horseback, artillery handled them well enough: even a centimeter-thick plate could not stop a cannonball or point-blank grapeshot. But inquisitors were not fond of horses. And from what I had heard about them, these were incredibly fast living tanks.

We needed something that could deal with them, but also be mobile enough. And what better weapon against tanks than something designed to fight tanks? Who cared if the local "tanks" walked on two legs instead of tracks!

Meanwhile, the servants set about gathering the training rockets. They would be sent to the mages to straighten out the dents, after which their powder engines would be refueled for new drills. The dummies, clad in already battered armor, were planted back into the ground.

"These guys didn't suffer any damage. Are you sure they'll be torn apart?" Asha remarked, watching the servants scatter quickly away from the firing zone.

"They're not supposed to be torn apart. You know how to make a shaped charge... umm, a directed blast, right?"

"Like this?"

A thunderous blast shook the ground, leaving behind a crater shaped like the letter D.

"Wait, how exactly did you do that?"

"I just do it, that's all. Like this." She shrugged, and another explosion followed with the same result.

Judging by the crater's shape, she was just deflecting the blast from one side. Not good!

"No, not like that. Look!"

I picked up a ready rocket and split it in half with a wave of my hand.

"See this copper cone? You need to set off the explosion around it; then the center collapses, throwing forward a jet of liquid copper at immense speed."

"Like this?"

Another boom, much louder this time, leaving my ears ringing mercilessly.

When the ringing faded, I shouted, "Something like that, but it has to be copper."

I pulled the cone from the rocket and handed it to her. She studied it thoughtfully, then tried again. Thankfully, this time I managed to cover my ears.

Bang!

The cone flattened into a pancake, and that was all.

"No, it has to turn into liquid."

"Like this?" Molten copper instantly dripped from her palms.

"No! It has to stay cold, but be liquid. Just forget it; for that to happen, the explosion speed must be incredibly fast."

"So, you're saying I'm not fast enough?" she asked, frowning with a suspicious tone.

Oh no, I could already tell where this was going.

"Just don't ruin the finished rockets. Go to the workshop and grab some copper cones. Actually no, I'll go with you."

"I can handle it myself!"

"You will, I just need to check how things are going there."

Checking on my two chief engineers was never a bad idea. They had thrown themselves with great enthusiasm into modeling the rotor line.

Amusingly, where normally one would spend ages calculating parameters and drafting schematics to get a prototype, here it was normal to work in reverse: slap together a prototype on the spot, then draw the "schematic" from it. And even then, it wasn't a schematic in the usual sense, more a note to the mage about what size and shape to transmute a part into.

So I wasn't the least bit surprised to find the workshop piled high with round-bodied and multi-armed machines, most barely waist-high. One even spun endlessly like a top, though it wasn't connected to any drive. Looking closer, I saw a small magic core set into the machine's base.

Sending Asha off to the apprentices assembling rockets, I leaned over Ashley's workbench. Even the rough sketch of magical flows made my head ache. Far too complex!

"How's progress?" I asked in an exaggeratedly cheerful tone.

"If all you need is quality control, that's already done. Dual-plane analysis will reject any product that doesn't meet standards. But making real-time corrections to defective... shells? That'll take time. I'd be faster if someone had a stricter, more responsible approach to tolerances!" She raised her voice enough that Pete couldn't help but hear.

The atmosphere here was... unfriendly.

"Mmm, right. I think I'll just go. Glad to see everything's fine." I quickly beat a retreat, not wanting to add fuel to the fire.

Pete really did eyeball everything, much like I did, honestly. But apparently, among those obsessed with golems, that wasn't the way things were done.

A phrase surfaced in my memory on its own:

"Golemcraft is necromancy for those afraid to get their hands dirty."

Odd. I couldn't recall where I'd heard it.

The phrase wouldn't leave my head; it gnawed at me.

The voice it replayed in sounded vaguely familiar.

"Astarot," I called softly. "Don't suppose you'll remind me where I heard that?"

"Nowhere," he growled.

"So I just made it up?" I pressed.

"No. You didn't hear it. That's one of the memories the body's previous owner failed to take with him."

I was about to ask what he meant when I heard the long-awaited beating of wings in the yard.

The frozen, weary griffon shook off the wet, rain dripping from its feathers. Water streamed from the crates strapped to the saddle, but that wasn't a problem. Inside was paraffin, utterly unaffected by water. The final component, without which using the new explosive would have been far too dangerous.

Excellent! I had already feared I'd have to cut up shells and waste the unstable jelly on mines instead.

All that remained now was to spend a couple of sleepless nights perfecting the proportions of the mixture...