Vol 7, Chapter 19

◆ Frozen River, Surroundings of Renvel, Dolan POV ◆ 
​

Beneath the water, brown strands of grass writhed. Sparse, slimy, combed as if by a giant's hand, they coiled around the boot of a soldier standing knee-deep in the river.

Or rather, on what had once been the shore. Just a few steps to the side and the shallows gave way to an iceberg whose ugly bulges blocked the riverbed. Despite the cold weather, the water gnawed at it relentlessly, streams trickling here and there... but most of the water had already spread out hundreds of meters, flooding the road and the fields.

"Too shallow here. We can't pass," Dolan stated.

"What about the other side? Maybe it's deeper there?" the big man rumbled back, deftly snatching a passing carrot out of the water.

"Don't even want to check. We're wet enough already. Let's go."

Leaning on the stock of his musket to keep from slipping on the riverbed, the marksman headed toward the ship. Though the barge was hidden by mist, the clatter of the steam engine made it impossible to get lost. The icy water gurgled around them and sloshed in their boots. If only they could get back quickly and dry off…

"Maybe we could try dragging the barge along the shore?" Dorvan suggested, crunching on the carrot.

"That weight? We wouldn't even budge it."

"What about the mages?"

Dolan only shook his head. The only idea he could come up with was to try blasting the ice with gunpowder. He wouldn't be thanked for wasting such a supply, but it was better than wasting artillery shells or trying to smash through the mass by hand.

A few steps further, the marksman stopped.

"Did you say something?"

"Huh? Yeah, why don't the mages just—"

"No! After that?"

Dorvan shrugged his muscular shoulders.

"Maybe my stomach growled?" he suggested.

"No. A voice. Let's check." The marksman turned decisively, heading away from the riverbed.

"You're joking, right? My legs are frozen stiff already!" Dorvan complained, but the commander had already vanished into the mist, leaving only the sound of splashing water behind him.

"Fine, fine…" the big man grumbled, sniffling as he followed.

The grass underfoot briefly gave way to cobblestones, then returned, denser and slimier. The ground grew uneven, his legs sinking into holes again and again. Within minutes he was soaked to the waist.

"At least there aren't any leeches…" he muttered to himself—and immediately fell silent.

Through the noise of the water came a melodic voice. It was hard to tell from where, but Dolan seemed to have no trouble following it. He waded as fast as he could. The water slowly receded, houses emerged from the mist, and carrots floated by more and more often, but Dorvan no longer paid attention. Pulling a short blunderbuss from behind his back, he followed the commander, trying to make as little noise as possible.

The voice grew louder, but Dolan could not find its source. Worse, a suspicious cracking joined it, growing steadily.

A cold wind blew at their faces.

"Inside, quick!" Dolan ordered.

Kicking up waves, they rushed into the nearest structure, a small but well-built log house.

The door stood open, but inside there was only ankle-deep water on the wooden floor. No dishes, no carpets—nothing, almost no furniture at all, except for an old table. The residents had left calmly, taking their valuables... Or marauders had had their fun—the house clearly belonged to someone wealthy. It didn't matter.

Dorvan slammed the sturdy door behind him, splashing water. The cracking outside grew louder. The wind howled.

Frost crept over the glass, and the door exhaled freezing mist. Ice crystals grew before their eyes, spreading across the floor. The house grew suddenly cold.

A few unbearably cold minutes, and the icy front receded… having frozen everything it managed to reach.

"Seems the folk around Renvel are rich—glass windows," Dolan remarked, jumping off a table onto the icy floor.

"Yeah. I hate mages," Dorvan muttered, trying to free his boots, already frozen to the floor. The ice cracked but held. With a sigh, he drew a dagger from his belt, more like a short sword.

Meanwhile, the commander smashed the window with his musket stock. An icy wind burst inside, carrying snowflakes.

"Who loves them? I'll go first, you follow." The marksman squeezed himself through the window with difficulty, then drew his musket.

Outside—it was winter, freezing cold. The gate, the house—everything was coated with ice crystals. The mist had vanished, and visibility was better now despite the flurry. The cold had already crossed the houses and was creeping slowly toward the road. The mages clearly weren't satisfied with just freezing part of the river. In a few minutes, the ice would certainly reach the barge as well…

Yes, if it got frozen in like Dorvan's boot, breaking free would be far harder than smashing an ice dam!

"Abyss," Dolan cursed, trying to climb onto the roof of the house.

The frozen tiles cracked beneath his weight, ice crystals cutting painfully into his hands. Well, not the first time and not the last; a good marksman must always be able to take the high ground.

His hands stiffened, his lungs burned with the icy air. But from up here he finally saw those whose voices had disturbed him.

A group of six mages stood at the frozen riverbank, working their foul craft. Who knew what madman had ordered them to freeze the river; there could be only one answer: strike the one in the center.

Five hundred meters to the target, not too far for him, but Abyss, the wind… Dolan aimed his musket, carefully tracking how the gusts twisted the snowflakes. Time was precious, but the cost of a mistake was higher.

He flexed and unflexed his frozen finger several times to be sure it wouldn't betray him. The sight and muzzle swayed gently around the tiny blue speck that was his target. Now!

A burst of fire lit the roof, the bullet slicing through the frosty air.

Almost a full second passed before the target dropped. No surprise, given the caliber. Even the marksman, despite every trick to lessen the recoil, felt the musket kick so hard that without his cuirass he'd be walking with broken ribs.

Dolan reloaded by touch, eyes locked on the enemy. The mages scattered, destabilizing the circle. The earth split asunder, focus lost, power thrashing within the circle with nowhere to escape.

A flash! A wave of cold burst from the circle's center, freezing both the dead mage and several companions who hadn't fled far enough. The job was done; they wouldn't be interfering now, but… the musket was loaded, and a hunter never leaves his prey.

The recoil slammed his shoulder, and one mage lost his head. Now it was truly over; the rest would run off before he could reload.

From below came the roar of grapeshot, followed by the crack of boards. Dorvan had finally forced his way out of the house.

"Hey! Catch!" the marksman shouted, shoving the heavy musket down from the roof.

"Think we've got time to dig the carrots out of the ice?" Dorvan asked, but the commander shook his head. Who knew how many more mages were around?

They had to get out, and fast.

Only the descent remained, and the trek across the ice, trying not to break too many bones. Why did the damned mages always make the ice so perfectly smooth?

Fortunately, he didn't have to suffer long; soon the ice began to splinter beneath their feet, and a hundred meters later the steel side of the barge loomed into view.

Leaving his comrade to warm himself at the boiler, Dolan began summoning the artillerymen, fending off yet another of Pit's insane ideas. Apparently he'd suggested melting a path with steam… utter nonsense.

Half an hour later, thunder rolled across the river. The barge's side was shrouded in smoke. Heavy shells smashed into the ice, shattering it piece by piece, slowly but relentlessly, like the hammer of a giant. The river, eager to reclaim its course, carried the shards away. Volley after volley hurled tons of water and ice skyward.

The ship was carving its way through the frozen mass, and nothing could stop it.

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

"Four crates, sir," the quartermaster reported, displaying neat rows of grenades packed in straw. I stretched out my hand and tried to summon one to me. The iron lump shifted reluctantly in its nest, and only when I pressed harder did it land in my palm. Between the notches filled with shrapnel gleamed blue-black veins of isolite. Expensive, perhaps wasteful, but nothing was worse than grenades turning back on their thrower with a flick of the wrist…

At least now it would take immense strength to pull off such a trick. If this had been just an ordinary grenade, with the force I used I could've cracked someone's ribs with it instead of simply pulling it to my hand.

"Screw in the fuses and distribute them among the companies," I ordered, checking the list.

"Yes, sir."

I crossed off the line in my list and turned to the river, where Captain Flint's ship stood: our mobile headquarters, and at the same time a resting place for the nobility.

And also my insurance, which I hoped wouldn't be needed. If things went wrong, the ship could evacuate those most important to me.

After all, the Second Duke's forces were only a few hours away, and without the battery of cannons I wasn't nearly as confident in our superiority.

"Count Condor. The Marquise demands your immediate presence at the council. Otherwise, they'll begin without you." The young knight who rode up to our wagons on horseback was a strange sight—mainly because of the heavy metal tank of an army flamethrower strapped to his back.

"Fine, I'll be there shortly," I replied, unable to resist asking, "Isn't it a bit early to be wearing that?"

"No, your lordship. The balance has changed. I need to get used to it."

"Commendable. Til! Check that everyone has received the modified bullets, and send someone to make sure they're loaded into the weapons."

"Understood."

After a moment's pause, making sure I'd forgotten nothing, I mounted a horse and rode toward the ship. The mounted flamethrower trotted beside me, the sloshing of the fiery mixture in his tank all too audible.

"Why not full?" I asked, noticing.

"Training, my lord. Just a little."

"And? Any success?"

"The horse panics without blinders. Other than that… I can't be sure. The Duke's knights have excellent armor and artifacts…"

"If this fire doesn't get through to them, then almost nothing will," I muttered, displeased that the boy had wasted precious fluid so carelessly. If he knew what it really was, he wouldn't have dared touch it with a finger.

Well, to the Abyss with it. Nothing could be done now…

At least he was brave enough to face the new, unlike the rest of those… blockheads.

Leaving my horse at the improvised pier, I climbed the gangplank aboard. Amid the charred, blackened planks, patches of fresh timber gleamed where Flint had tried to repair the ship even under such conditions.

"Fair winds!" came the greeting from the masthead. The possessed head lashed at the very top served as the ship's eternal lookout.

Perhaps Flint had intended the talking head to frighten guests away, but the plan clearly wasn't working.

I descended to the middeck, where the fire's aftermath was nearly erased. Only the stench of smoke, soaked deep into the planks, refused to fade…

In the crew quarters, silence. It seemed the nobility had driven the sailors off the ship. Snorting, I went down to the lower deck.

Barring the need to stoop, it was the most convenient place on the ship for negotiations. At least ten people could fit here.

Magical lanterns hung everywhere. Originally, they had been meant as a safeguard against a shadow assassin, but with so many people… shadows were everywhere. Fortunately, the meeting would not last long.

"Welcome, Count Condor. Half an hour ago we received word: the Second Duke's army has halted. At first, we thought it was just a rest stop, but ten minutes ago our scouts reported their formation is changing. The marching columns are deploying; they're taking up defensive positions."

"A provocation. We must continue toward Renvel," I cut in, but found no approval among those gathered.

Instead, whispers spread through the ranks.

"I fear not," the Marquise shook her head. "Baroness Syrel's spies report that Renvel's garrison is preparing to march against us. Our position has worsened. We must strike before the enemy completes their ritual circle."

The stout Baroness nodded solemnly.

"Have the griffins actually seen troops marching out of Renvel?" I asked, meeting her gaze.

"No, but… by the time they do, it will be too late," she smirked.

I gave a short nod, noting the new figurines on the map. Alongside pikemen and armored knights stood a massive model of a beast. The  long spear of a soldier pointed upward, barely reaching the head of the hunched monster.

"What is that?"

"A living battering ram. It seems the Duke used it in the capture of Lothingham. Sometimes chimeras grow too large to be ridden. Feeding such beasts is difficult, and they're often butchered for ingredients. But Thorn is wealthy enough not to care about the cost."

"Another problem…"

"Oh no, it's quite slow. The knights can easily outpace it."

"And the infantry?"

The Marquise pressed her lips together.

"The battle will be decided by the clash of knights. We cannot afford to split our strength against that creature; otherwise, our chances of victory will plummet."

"So this thing will just trample our troops? The size of the figurine… it's accurate?"

"Yes, the siege chimera is roughly that large."

I clenched my teeth to keep from cursing. Of course—they didn't care about the infantry. In the minds of aristocrats, they were only living walls, meant to delay the enemy and block his maneuvers. The nobility won the battles. I would have to… adjust the plan once again.

"We march in half an hour. After deliberation, we have decided to entrust you with command of the united militia," she announced solemnly, doing her best to ignore the disapproving looks of her vassals.

"Thank you for the honor," I replied neutrally.

The Marquise moved the steel figurines, explaining the preliminary battle plan, but I listened only half-heartedly. Until we knew the enemy's formation, all of this was empty theory that would collapse in practice. Or at the first charge of that living battering ram…

What I needed urgently was a cannon. Yes, I could scrape together enough metal to make one, but the problem was ammunition. Grapeshot I could replace with musket balls, but against such a beast that would be like throwing pebbles at an elephant. And to find enough cast iron for solid shot was impossible.

Which meant I needed to use something other than metal.

"I agree with your plan of attack, but on one condition," I interrupted the Marquise, drawing a wave of irritation from those gathered.

"A condition?" she raised a brow, as murmurs and chuckles spread among the rows.

"I need an earth mage… or at least an adept."

"Count Bicon?" the Marquise asked. He grimaced but nodded.

"I will provide one," he spat more than spoke.

Lately… my relations with the aristocracy had deteriorated sharply. Each council pushed us closer and closer to mutual dislike, and the higher the titles, the faster our contradictions grew. Individually, aristocrats could be tolerated, but when they banded together and demanded pointless, untimely ceremonies… well, I had to restrain myself. After all, we were allies. For now.

"Good. Thank you," I nodded, inwardly crossing one problem off the list. "Now, forgive me, but I must go."

"But the council is not yet over! What could be more important than discussing the battle plan?" The Marquise struggled not to raise her voice, but disapproval slipped into her tone. That was too much even for her, though she usually tried to smooth over conflicts.

"I need to inspect the field kitchens," I said curtly, and headed for the exit.

Hateful eyes bored into my back.