Vol 7, Chapter 17

◆ Great Desert, Battlefield, Border Fortress of the Theocracy, Necromancer POV ◆


The scorching wind howled among the dunes. It smelled of death.

Heaps of bodies surrounded the charred fortress in the middle of the sands. Chimeras, men, and mages: the desert had become their common grave, carefully shrouding their remains with a yellowish veil. Untouched by decay, dried by the blazing sun, the corpses were a true treasure for a necromancer.

The wanderer drove his bone staff into the sand and bent over the nearest corpse, torn in half despite its armor.

The dead man was restless. He still slept, but he was no longer truly dead. After three days in the cursed desert, the curse of undeath had bound his soul firmly to his mutilated remains.

A black, shriveled finger of the necromancer touched his forehead.

Giant mandibles loomed in his vision, the scrape of armor, unbearable pain, and paralyzing relief as they snapped his spine. Useless; nothing could be learned from this…

The necromancer glanced at the next body, but passed it by without even stooping. The corpse in a black robe was empty, already laid to rest. Two slashes across the wrist had not been dealt by the enemy: the church adherent had chosen to die by his own hand, taking several opponents with him. There was no point touching him now; this was just a husk, nearly useless even to the most skilled necromancers.

He needed mages. Not only for his craft, but to understand why this battle had no victor. Neither the Commonwealth nor the Theocracy would have left so many bodies to the desert; even they were not so reckless.

Eyes sunken deep into his skull spotted a bright robe among the dead. The necromancer hobbled toward it, his staff—until then whispering across the sand—now striking with a hollow thud. The wanderer stooped, skeletal hand sweeping aside the sand.

Beneath lay fused, murky glass and golden veins: a magic circle.

So that was it. The necromancer continued on to the body. Through his dim sight he saw that the mage's chest bore a gaping hole directly opposite the heart. Broken ribs jutted out like spider legs.

Hesitating only a moment, he thrust his hand into the wound and saw the battle instead.

A meteor shower fell upon the fortress. Most of the stones disintegrated in the air, but those that remained broke through the defenses. Fire spread. The defenders' counterstrike evaporated several dozen graceful, spider-like chimeras along with their handlers.

The necromancer could not help but feel regret at the inglorious erasure of such beautiful creatures.

The Void prowled at the circle's edge, devouring its wards with terrifying speed. Its nearness fractured the vision into splinters.

The rift in the sky closed. The mages rejoiced. A spear jutted from the belly: death.

The necromancer was thrown from the body. He sat before the corpse, his own heart beating its last, forcing viscous blood through his veins.

The master of death regarded failure without emotion.

After half a minute, he dove once more into the dead man's final memories.

The spear slid wetly from the body. A horse's muzzle, steel armor… Stop.

The world froze. A tall horse charged the mage, his heavy hooves suspended midair. A knight on his back; a long spear, already bloodied. No standard, no heraldic colors, yet the sharp steel was aimed unerringly at the heart. Skilled technique.

The fortress gates were open. Armored men rushed out, their swords already wet with blood.

Behind them came dozens more knights. So they too had been within the fortress. The first group, the one including the mage's killer, had breached the defenses and reached the circle. The necromancer needed no other corpses to tell him: they had slain everyone within.

The rest struck like battering rams, toppling chimeras on the flanks. Neither bone plates, nor size, nor strength could save the beasts. A knight's lance drove deep and split within, branching into dozens, a steel tree sprouting inside. Such vast wounds gave even the hardiest monsters no chance. Very, very skilled; the sort of skill found only in the Royal Guard.

The necromancer released the vision. If the King thought that simply removing the bodies of the fallen knights was enough to hide his involvement in the battle... he was mistaken.

"Finished your little research?" came a sarcastic voice from behind.

Only the fact that he was more dead than alive kept the necromancer from flinching. Slowly, he turned and peered blearily at the speaker.

"King Dastan the First," the necromancer rasped, his voice foul but utterly calm.

No servants, no horse, not even armor. Only a massive sword slung across his back—so large it could serve as a shield. One had to admit, the new sovereign of the Kingdom was bolder than his predecessor… or more foolish. Yet why could he still not sense him? The necromancer's Source insisted that what stood before him was no man, but a desert mirage.

"For a desert hermit, you are surprisingly well informed about the political situation," the King praised his interlocutor.

"We feel deaths. Many deaths. Some deaths… louder than the rest."

"Really? And I always thought you cooperated with cults and heretics for information, to know if anyone had the idea of sending an army into the desert to finish you off," the King smirked.

The necromancer said nothing. From his staff, power seeped into the ground. It slowly spread into the nearby corpses, pushing them toward undeath, toward a second awakening.

"I see you liked my gift so much that you're already trying to make use of it? Perhaps we should talk first?"

"Speak." The necromancer's voice was like a knife scraping glass.

"A shame we had to meet in person. At first I wanted to infect these bodies right away, but alas… it turned out the desert is rather inhospitable to my little ones." The King pulled a vial from his belt and tossed it into the sand at the necromancer's bare feet. "Find a way to shield them from death magic. Use corpses to carry the infection. Lay waste to all lands in your path. That is my req… my proposal."

Instead of answering, the master of death struck his staff against the vial.

Clang!

The vessel burst into violet smoke and… He felt something foreign in his blood. Parasites drank greedily from his Source… and perished. Viscous blood filled with death, bringing a surge of strength. An interesting effect.

"Including the Kingdom?"

"Yes. When the time comes, I'll provide the names of the cities where the plague must be delivered. Beyond that—do as you will. I am sure the deaths that have occurred so far are not even half enough to resurrect your ancestor. Such a chance comes once in a thousand years. Gather your harvest at leisure, but remember: if you act against my army, I will destroy you. So my advice: stay near the north and far from the royal harbor."

"The Pontiff and the inquisitors will crush that army without difficulty. It would be wiser for me to send the dead against the Commonwealth."

"The high clergy will not interfere. So… do as I command, old man," Dastan finished in a tone of authority.

The necromancer was silent for several minutes, then spoke in a creaking voice.

"Do you know the history of my people, King?"

"No, and I couldn't care less."

"… after the necromancer wars, the mages exterminated everyone… everyone but the necromancers. Irony, heh. No one wished to lose such a unique tool. Archan served the Magocracy faithfully for centuries, until one day…"

"One day he struck the Magocracy in the back, and they should never have given him such a chance. They had only themselves to blame. I know what you're thinking, old man. My offer is too tempting; you've already agreed. But to save face, you tell stories. Not to me—to yourself. You pretend you're a player, that you make choices. But you're only my tool. Period."

"A wise man would not flaunt his understanding just to boast," the necromancer croaked.

"I'm no man. I'm better."

In an instant, the sword was in his hands. Another instant, and the necromancer's heart beat outside his body, feebly twitching on the sword's tip.

With a careless motion, the King flicked it onto the sand, where it contracted one last time. The frail body collapsed after it.

The old man raised a bony finger weakly, pointing at the sword. His eyes bulged so wide they almost looked normal.

"Oh, you recognized the metal? At least someone remembers it. Perhaps it's no surprise that necromancers were the ones who never lost this knowledge."

Choking on blood, the master tried to speak, but nothing came out. The staff in his hands trembled, yet the dead did not hasten to his call.

"I forgot to mention: as a lich, you'll be more useful to me. And if you think you can't become one… don't worry. I'll help."

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"Defective. Defective. Also defective. And what even is this?" I slammed the revolver against the sword, and the barrel simply snapped, scattering fragments across the improvised workshop.

"You think you can just relieve the strain on such a complex shape?" one of my new 'workers' protested.

"The others managed, Count Biсon," I replied.

"We did it in parts, then assembled them," Erin added quickly, forestalling the Count who was already turning crimson. "Once again, I want to thank you on behalf of all the Klaus family for passing this knowledge to us."

"Without gunpowder, they're useless anyway," I shrugged.

Overall, for aristocrats, it truly would not be difficult to replicate the design of something made of metal. That was one of the reasons I had not been in a hurry to complicate my weapons: no matter how complex, they could always be dismantled and copied. Which meant I would be literally shooting myself in the foot, since the more complex the weapon, the harder it would be for me to produce as well. But now, confident that my factories could outproduce any of their workshops, I no longer needed to worry. In fact, I could use this property to my advantage. More precisely… establish a small manufactory right here.

"Hff! As if we alone should be grateful, while Count Condor replenishes his own stock at our expense!"

"Stock?" I raised an eyebrow. Most of the protégés were still fumbling, and of the first four revolvers, the only halfway decent one was Erin's. And even that, I was sure, was only because she had long been secretly studying and trying to replicate these guns. "I must inform you, Count, in Reikland they produce in a day what you cannot in a month."

"Nonsense, where will you find so many mages?"

"Did I ever say they were made by mages?"

"Such a complex shape… no blacksmith could…"

"Enough. My troops will arrive any day now, and you'll see for yourself. For now… hm."

I rolled the finished revolvers across the table. Despite being given identical samples, the results looked… not very similar.

"Perhaps I should make a golem to check the basic…"

"You have your own task, don't get distracted!" I snapped at Ashley, whom I had loaded immediately, right after our meeting, with the problem of the cartridge factory. For now, she was only sketching out the basics, but when Pete arrived on the barge with his team in five days, they could get to work in earnest.

As for the aristocrats the Marquise had graciously allowed me to drag into honest labor…

"Alright, change of plan. Should've done this from the start… Shift the tables, split into groups, and divide responsibilities. Frame, cylinder, barrel, trigger mechanism… Erin, you'll take this one. Also hardening and assembly." With a wave of my hand, I dismantled the display revolver into separate parts.

Knock, knock, knock.

A servant appeared at the door.

"Too early for lunch," I cut him off before he could speak. Some of the heirs, who formed the bulk of those sent to work here, had already looked hopefully toward the door. Count Bicon was a highborn exception in this regard… though likely only because he would have been more of a nuisance at the war council.

"No, my lord. That is, yes, too early for lunch… But, the Marquise invites you to her chambers." The servant bowed repeatedly.

"Shall I handle things here?" Ashley offered from her table. "In the Steel Tower we worked the same way: each person did their part."

I hesitated for a second. Considering no one here would actually listen to her… and she clearly just wanted an excuse to tinker with the revolvers… hm.

"Erin, you're in charge, but Ashley will assist you…"

"Hooray!" Ashley shouted, throwing her hands up. Prototypes of cartridges clattered to the floor from her desk.

"…keep an eye on her. I'll check when I return."

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"What's the problem this time?" I asked as soon as I entered the stuffy, perfume-reeking office. And then my eyes landed on the familiar face of my general. I slapped him on the back, making his cuirass rattle. "Glad to see you, how was the journey?"

Contrary to expectations, he faltered.

"Mmm, there's… a little problem, Commander. A small one."

"A small one, yes," the Marchioness crossed her arms, boring into Til with a contemptuous gaze. "Your men, Count, killed Baron Piculi while passing through his lands."

"Til, any losses?"

"That is the first thing you thought of?" the Marchioness cut him off before he could answer.

Ignoring her, I gave him an encouraging nod.

"One man took a bolt to the neck, but Ron pulled him out—both the bolt, and the fellow out of the grave, so to speak. Another couple dozen fractures… One knight got too close and knocked the guns out of the soldiers' hands. Trifles, really—they shot him."

"Thank you." I turned to the Marchioness. "Yes, that was the first thing I thought of. Now, second question: was he from the Second Duchy?"

"Worse. From the  Royal Domain."

"Ah, then to hell with him!" I waved my hand dismissively.

Grandfather erupted into a fit that was half coughing, half laughter, or perhaps both.

"We've discussed this! The King is only waiting for an excuse to strip you of your titles, and there could be no better pretext! Even those who defended your family's good name will side with the King!" the Marchioness scolded.

"So what? He would have found another excuse anyway. Besides, I'm sure my men were defending themselves, weren't they?"

"Yeah, he came at us himself. We warned him. Even fired a shot into the air. Once." Til's mood improved with every word, though I had no idea what they'd been telling him before this…

"You see? All fine," I reassured the Marchioness, showing with my demeanor that it was nothing serious.

She pressed her palm to her forehead.

"You had no right to march through lands without their lord's leave. And to kill a man defending his own domain… your reputation has taken serious damage. I hope you've reserved some troops in case of uprisings?"

"Uprisings?"

"Abdication would give peasants and townsfolk the right to plunder your estates without punishment. All oaths between vassals become void, and no one will blame a knight for turning his blade against a former master!"

"Phew, I thought it was something serious," I sighed in relief. I had hardly any knights to begin with, and peasants certainly weren't going to rebel. Not after all we had been through. Still… I probably should send a regiment or two to the Short estate. The young Short heir, still undergoing forced re-education after swearing fealty, might lose his nerve and do something foolish. As for the others, I was confident.

"Dear, perhaps you could talk some sense into your grandson?" she turned to Karl, realizing she could not sway me. He spread his hands.

"There may be some unrest, of course, but I don't think it will amount to much. Certainly not in Reikland. Those people hold the King's authority in no regard, trust me."

The Marchioness sighed and dropped into her chair.

"And how, then, am I to convince my vassals that alliance with you is a good idea?"

"Order them, that's all," I shrugged.

"It doesn't work like that! If I ignore their interests, sooner or later someone will drive a dagger into my back!"

"Calm yourself, dear," Grandfather pulled her close. "I've already thought about this. I was planning to declare him heir to the throne."

"One no better than the other. For starters, that should have been done before Dastan's coronation. Even after the coronation it might have had a small chance—if the King had rushed to strip him of his title without solid grounds. Now… it's pointless."

"Originally, yes, it should have been… more convincing," Grandfather admitted with a shrug.

"Not a bad idea, actually," I interjected. "That the aristocrats won't believe? Who cares. What matters is what the people believe."

"That does not solve our problem…"

"Then wait for the battle. After that, no one will dare move. By the way, where is our opponent who refused negotiations?"

"Besieging Lottingham. And still not a single royal troop in sight. Henri, it seems, placed his bet on the wrong man. The King completely abandoned and betrayed him."

"How much time do we have?" I asked with some concern. The barge carrying the artillery was due only in five days. Without it… things would be tight.

"That depends on how long the city holds," the Marchioness sighed wearily, smoothing the bags under her eyes.

The very next day the report came.

Lottingham had fallen.

The Second Duke's army was already marching toward us.