Vol 7, Chapter 14

 ◆ Castle of the Third Duchy, Marquise von Klaus's and Asha's POV. ◆
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Etienne's knights rose from the table, hands reaching for their swords.

"We're leaving!" he announced to his brother, his voice nervous.

So, he hadn't known. Strange. News like this should have reached him first. The Marquise turned her head toward Henri and froze. Though the Marquis was far better at controlling his emotions, he too was shaken. Could it truly be news to him as well?

"How could you, brother? Would you truly miss the funeral? That would be an insult to the entire house. I must kindly suggest you reconsider." Henri's eyes flicked toward his barons. He was uncertain of their loyalty, of their willingness to obey.

That meant only one thing: he had not planned any of this.

So why had the servant delivered such critical news aloud, before everyone? Any Marquis could have greatly improved his position by holding such knowledge, but now all were forced to improvise.

Wait… whose servant was that?

The Marquise's eyes darted about the hall. Where was he? Abyss! In the commotion, the servant had simply vanished.

"I think I'll decline," Etienne replied, his voice trembling.

The death of the Second Duke left him with nothing. The Duchess needed him no more than a cart needed a fifth wheel.

Taking advantage of the pause, the Marquise strode to the window and flung it open with a sharp motion. The signal was given.

"Etienne, what about a temporary alliance?" she suggested. With his knights' help, their chances of escaping alive would rise.

"Agreed!" Etienne answered at once, sending his knights to join them. Yet even combined, their group was still weaker than Henri's.

He understood this as well.

"Face the truth: I am already the Third Duke. Our house must end these quarrels and unite against the Second Duchy, which will surely try to bite off a piece of us. I am merciful, and so I will not even worsen my conditions."

"I haven't heard your conditions," Etienne reminded him.

"Your lands are too convenient a foothold for the Second Duchy. The Duchess has no use for you, so you must name the terms on which I will agree to spare your life, brother."

Etienne faltered. Seeing this, the Marquise spoke.

"We refuse to submit. You are not yet Duke and have no right to command us. A wretch like you will never unite the Duchy," she declared with the utmost disdain. Not to insult, but to provoke him into action—otherwise, bereft of support, the weakling-Etienne might well capitulate. Of course Henri understood this too, but to swallow such an insult would mean losing face before his vassals. Sometimes status bound as tightly as chains!

"The All-God is my witness, I tried to reason," Henri sighed and gave the order. "Leave the Marquises alive. Kill the rest."

The knights had not taken a step before the doors burst into flaming splinters. A torrent of roaring fire flooded the hall, driving Henri scrambling beneath the table. The runic amulet on his chest flared hot, shielding him from the flames. Just in time. Overhead, gunfire cracked, the echoes turning each shot into a storm. The whistle of bullets cut through the air, a bloodied body crashed onto the table. Unarmored knights stood no chance. Further off, the clash of battle resounded as Henri's men fought, mixing with knights of other branches.

That should hinder the enemy from using magic, lest they harm their own. Yet the fire thought otherwise. Flowing like a living thing, it wove between combatants, searing only the enemy.

"Ashiran? Next you'll be inviting Hardans to family dinners?! Such disrespect to our house!" Henri muttered, opening a secret passage beneath the table and diving in like a fish. Ha! And after this, let anyone dare reproach him for building hidden escape routes in his dining hall instead of torture stocks!

Above him, a severed head rolled down the chute. The knights covering his retreat fell to bullets and blades.

Erin wrenched her sword from a knight's body and squinted through the smoke with streaming eyes.

"Can't see a damn thing! Asha, do something!"

"I'm a fire mage, not an air mage."

"Argh!"

At her growl, Asha merely shrugged and wandered toward the table, more interested in the drinks.

Erin turned over body after body, coughing in the smoke as she searched for the Marquis.

"You're late!" her mother scolded, her voice calm despite the madness around them.

She only waved it off until she spotted the hole in the floor.

"He's gone. I'll follow."

"No. We're leaving."

"What? But then—"

"We leave. We have no time to chase him through the castle. Brother Etienne, are you with us?"

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded.

"What filth! How can you drink this?" Asha protested, having stealthily reached the mandrake juice. Apparently, no one had warned her that bitterness was normal for an aperitif…

Carrying the wounded, the group squeezed past the gunners, who were hastily reloading their weapons.

"Mmm. Because of the aristocrats inability to swallow their pride and come to terms, it's the ordinary workers who will suffer again." one of them muttered, slipping a half-empty powder flask back onto his belt.

"And who is this, daring to speak?" the Marquise snapped.

"It doesn't matter! Move, move! We need to reach the ship," Condor urged, pulling his wife along.

In the corridor lay the bodies of guards and two soldiers. One aimed a pneumatic rifle down the hallway, while the other pumped the empty stock-cylinder. The weapon had allowed them to silently take out the guards on approach to the dining hall.

Alarm bells rang throughout the castle.

One soldier hurriedly screwed the cylinder into place, but too late—more guards appeared at the far end. His partner, still covering, carefully took aim at a guard's head. The cylinder was already nearly drained.  A muffled pop, then the metallic clang of a ricochet down the corridor. The bullet left only a streak of lead on the steel helm. The rifles had nowhere near the stopping power of heavy muskets or even revolvers. Drawing spare sidearms, the soldiers opened fire. The corridor filled with gunpowder smoke. Precious gunpowder smoke.

Air could be found anywhere, but Condor's men had little powder left.

Roaring flame engulfed the surviving guards.

"Pfah! Don't linger! Pfah—keep moving, pfah!" Asha grumbled, spitting every other word from the bitter taste still in her mouth.

From a side passage, Flint's team joined them, led by Marvin. They dragged along a mangled healer, whom his elderly teacher was trying to mend even as they ran.

The portcullis melted into a pool of fire, gates blown apart. The half-raised drawbridge crashed down with a clatter. A thick chain was literally torn apart by the combined strength of mages. Arrows and bolts—steel-tipped and obsidian alike—rained down at their backs. The soldiers fired back, not to kill, but to keep their foes behind cover. One of Len's men tried to haul a golden vase, but at a slap from his commander, he reluctantly hurled it into the moat.

Below lay the evening city. Orange sunlight shimmered on the great lake, making it glow with soft radiance. For a moment, Asha forgot both the vile bitterness in her mouth and the stench of fish wafting from the docks. Beautiful.

The locals wisely cleared out of the way. Whatever Marquis Henri's men were doing, they weren't trying to block the port.

"Above!" Condor warned, recognizing griffon wings instantly.

A snow-white beast soared from the castle tower, carrying some kind of cargo. It made no attempt to attack, though from above it clearly had them in sight. In a heartbeat the winged monster vanished behind the rooftops.

"I don't like this. Faster, faster!" Erin urged.

Manor houses gave way to slums. The stench of fish guts permeated everything; anyone with coin had long since moved uphill toward the castle, where the air was slightly less foul.

But this time, the smell of smoke came from the sea.

The docks were ablaze.

Fishing boats burned. From the flaming deck of a frigate, sailors leapt into the water. The furious captain drove onlookers away with his sabre. In his eyes burned hatred of his own helplessness. What could be more wretched than watching your ship burn, powerless to stop it? The first mate pummeled the water with conjured fists of air, trying to raise a wave to quench the fire—but with little effect. Mere splashes could not smother the bluish flames. The sails had already burned away; fire crept up the blackened masts. The rigging was gone, the upper deck turning to charcoal.

The clap of white wings. The griffon returned with another barrel. Seeing the mages below, it dared not approach too close, dropping it vaguely toward the frigate. A column of spray rose. A wooden barrel bobbed up, a rainbow sheen spreading across the water from its cracked staves.

The white griffon circled above the pier, making no move to leave. Surely Henri's troops were already closing in. That was the strategy.

Shoving her way through the crowd, Asha sprinted toward the ship.

"Where in the Abyss were you, damn you all to mermaids for wives!" the captain roared at her, but the girl didn't even glance his way.

She rolled up the sleeves of her robe. The ship's deck was drenched in a luminous fluid. Though it was called "fire crystals for paupers," an entire barrel of the stuff was hardly less dangerous. Extinguishing it would be difficult. But she had no intention of simply extinguishing it.

A blinding flash of flame cut across their vision. A pillar of dazzling fire shot upward, devouring the masts. Twisting like a colossal serpent, the fire lunged at the griffon.

No. Too high.

The flame died in an instant. It seemed to vanish, but not quite—the evening sky rippled, the clouds dancing as if seen through the eyes of a drunkard. The griffon flailed helplessly, dropping into an air pocket. It spun in place, white feathers scattering and yellowing in the heat before their eyes.

After several tumbles, the smoking griffon escaped the turbulence and, wings flapping unevenly, retreated into the distance.

"Gone. Again," the girl remarked with disappointment, ignoring the fact that such sorcery was already beyond the ability of a senior mage. To bend another element with one's own—that was the level of someone reaching for the rank of Lesser Archmage.

The sailors cast out gangplanks. The charred deck groaned and gave way beneath passengers' feet. Rich garments blackened with soot, but no one cared.

"Wait," the Marquise exclaimed suddenly. "How are we supposed to sail without sails?"

"No problem, auntie," the mage girl shot back and headed below deck.

Her hands touched the boiler, leaving glowing imprints upon the metal. Within seconds the entire boiler glowed red-hot. Valves shrieked as they vented excess pressure. The flywheel jolted into motion, accelerating within moments. The ship lurched forward so suddenly it nearly knocked passengers off their feet.

"Careful! The metal barely held!" Ashley cried, unlike her friend fully aware that the system had only narrowly avoided exploding.

"Oh. Well, I thought we needed to hurry," came the careless reply.

Ashley eyed the overstressed machinery with skepticism. Everything would need repairing at the first stop.

Above, nobles scrambled to lash together swords as a makeshift helm. Sighing, she went to help them—otherwise the ship would crash ashore like a stranded fish.

Behind them, the spilled kerosene slick reached the burning dock. A single spark, and a wall of fire roared over the water. Thick black smoke shrouded the sky, but no one dared hope it would cover their escape. On the contrary, two more griffons were already flying from the castle toward them. There was only one river, and the ship could not turn from it. And speed… No matter how good the steam engine, it could not muster even a tenth the pace of a griffon.

So they would have to fight.

Orders and shouts echoed across the deck. The healer poured strength into the burned sailors. Knights cursed and pointed skyward, demanding their swords back. But she refused. Better they go unarmed than leave the ship without a helm!

Ashley rounded the sword-blades, binding them into an improvised wheel. Altering another's blood-bound steel was unbearably hard, and she already regretted not spending a bit more time finding another solution, but…

The rudder was set. The helmsman spun the wheel without fear of cutting his hands. The ship turned course, rushing toward the bay's mouth.

Ashley dusted metal shavings from her hands and looked back at her friend. She sat serenely on the blackened deck, gazing at the blazing lake…

Or not?

The flames stretched to the horizon, yet it seemed as though she was looking beyond them. Through them.

Reflections of fire danced in Ashiran's eyes, a smile curling on her lips.

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"And here they are. Didn't even have to look for them," I remarked, watching the blazing lake and the ship pulling away. The absence of sails and the clouds of steam from the iron pipe filled me with both awe and disappointment. It meant someone had beaten me to it.

I saw no paddlewheel—could it be screw propellers?

No, that wouldn't do. The first steamer simply had to be paddle-driven… So, all's well. No one had stolen my glory.

"Ran. Two griffons. Eleven thirty-five," Falcon cut me off sharply, instantly snapping into battle readiness.

"Eleven o'clock, thirty-five degrees," he clarified for good measure and urged the griffon on.

Laura heaved her wings and climbed higher.

I shifted my gaze. From the castle, two griffons with brown plumage flew toward the ship. The most common coloration.

And worse, they had the height advantage. Even to an air-combat amateur like me, it was obvious this was a rotten position.

There were two of us, but only one rider per griffon. Which meant they would outmatch us in maneuverability.

"They'll outfly us at altitude. Their griffons are fresh, Laura is tired. And we've got cargo. The plan is simple—we climb higher, make it look like we're taking the fight, and when they bite, we dive for the ship," Falcon said firmly.

I had my doubts.

Yes, it was the safest way out, but that wouldn't shake them off. Right now we weren't too far behind them in altitude. Once they pushed us down to the ground, we'd have no chance to get rid of them. We had to gouge out the enemy's eyes.

"Climb as high as you can, so our relative speeds stay low. If they're darting around like rockets, I won't be able to hit them." I ordered, unfastening my holsters one by one.

Falcon shook his head doubtfully.

"A griffon's a big beast. Fragile compared to other chimeras, sure, but a couple of bullets won't bring it down."

"We don't need to kill them. Just wound them. Your plan's fine, but then they'll keep circling above us. Let's draw them in close and hurt them before we fly to the ship. Even a small wound will sap their strength and force them to give up the chase."

He thought for a few seconds.

"All right. We've got a chance. Let's do it."

Falcon opened the bag strapped to the griffon and pulled out a bolt-thrower. He loaded a magazine and cocked the spring with a touch of Gift.

"Ready," he said in a focused voice, then suddenly frowned. "Something's wrong. They're climbing way too fast."

Tucking their legs tight and beating their wings feverishly, the enemy griffons climbed higher and higher, widening the gap.

"Bad. They're setting up a carousel. I underestimated their speed. We need to fall back," he shouted, and Laura dropped into a dive.

The wind slashed at my eyes.

Falcon pressed himself flat against the griffon's neck. His hand awkwardly shoved the bolt-thrower toward me, forcing me to holster my revolvers.

"Know how to use it?" he yelled, the wind swallowing most of his words.

"I'll manage," I replied, taking the weapon.

An angular hunk of metal, heavy for its size. Inside, a thick spring and one, two… five bolts.

"To boost power, charge the spring with your Gift. Don't bother trying to speed up the bolts with your Gift—their cores are isolite, immune to magic."

Made sense. What was the point of shooting mages with something they could just deflect?

I twisted back as much as I could, but saw no pursuers. They were… hidden in the clouds?

A white veil burst open as a griffon streaked down at full speed. The rider raised his bolt-thrower and loosed five shots in an instant. A wild volley—they whistled past a dozen meters away.

Tac-tac!

My weapon barked back, but the foe was already swallowed by the clouds.

Tac-tac-tac-tac-tac!

The second rider had refined their aim. He burst out closer and shot with precision. One bolt passed alarmingly near.

I got it. Now the first would come again. This wasn't a carousel—it was a damned wheel…

We kept diving, stripping the enemy of their cloud cover.

I aimed the bolt-thrower roughly where the first rider should reappear and fired two more bolts.

And sure enough, a moment later he emerged there—but unharmed.

Tac! The bolt-thrower spat its last shot. Missed. Useless junk…

Laura banked hard to dodge the volley, and I nearly lost my grip on the weapon.

"Magazines in the bags!" Falcon shouted, clearly counting my shots.

I scanned the weapon with my Gift to figure out the mechanism. With a soft click the spent magazine dropped away, a new one sliding into place. Draw the spring tight… Ready. But was it worth it?

I whipped my head around, but saw no enemy. The clouds were far too high now for a sudden dive. So where…?

Falcon swore up front, and the sudden jolt nearly threw me from the saddle. A shadow swept over me. The Abyss, how had he gotten ahead? A third? No, it looked like the same one…

I fired two bolts after the griffon, gritting my teeth. They flew noticeably slower than bullets, their speed frustrating in the midst of battle. To hell with it. Even if I couldn't reload my revolvers mid-flight, at least they'd be more useful than this.

I slung the bolt-thrower behind me and drew my revolvers again.

"Good news, looks like they brought few bolts. Bad news, they'll try to tear us apart with claws. Very bad news, they're dosed on potions," Falcon shouted.

A blur surged closer from behind. Now in open sky, there was nowhere to hide, but that didn't make it easier. He came twice as fast, on a steeper course.

But we were on the same line. Perfect for a shot.

"Six o'clock, forty-five degrees."

"Got it," Falcon answered.

I waited patiently for him to come closer.

Tac-tac-tac… the bolt-thrower began its song, but my twin shot cut it off. And another volley right after!

The griffon veered upward. Hard to tell if it was wounded.

Drops of blood struck my face. But not the enemy's. Laura's plumage was red—one bolt had caught us after all. Once he got on our tail, it was easy shooting for him too…

Laura lost speed and leveled out.

Damn!

Claws slashed past me again. If I wanted, I could have reached out and touched them, but instead I spent that fraction of a second firing. This time I was sure I'd hit the griffon square in the rump, but… that wasn't exactly the most vital part of its body.

Squawking in protest, the beast soared upward.

Now, stripped of cloud cover, it was plain how they switched places, climbing for another dive. Again and again, until they shoot us down.

"Turn toward the lake! We'll hide in the smoke!"

Laura folded her wings, plunging straight down like a stone.

The enemy obediently followed.

The black shroud loomed closer. Still too high.

Carefully aiming, I emptied one of my revolvers.

One bullet smacked the griffon's hard beak and ricocheted skyward. The creature shook its head. Though the shot left no visible wound, the pursuer surely felt it.

Taс-taс! The rider loosed his last two bolts.

One pierced the wing, the other buried deep in the hind leg.

Not bad, damn him. He could've waited another second or two for a closer shot. Or had he feared losing us in the smoke?

From the corner of my eye, I watched the blazing lake draw nearer. Almost there.

I slung the bolt-thrower onto Falcon's back.

"Astarot, lend a hand?"

"Don't count on wings, mortalis," he growled sleepily.

True, wings would've made things easier…

Smoke filled my nostrils. Thin, weak, but it would have to do. Time.

I tore through the straps with sharp claws, and the rushing wind flung me straight at the griffons.

A hooked beak filled my vision, a huge eye rolling to fix on me, jaws opening. Too late.

I was already crashing into the rider, whose shock at the sudden appearance of a man (or rather a demon) was plain to see.

Clawed hand plunged into his chest, snapping ribs and spine. At the last instant I thrust in my other hand, nearly tearing straight through the rider; had I done so, I would have just flown on past him. Pain flared in my shoulder, something cracked. Bearable.

Tac! Tac! Familiar sounds to my right. The second rider had noticed his comrade's uninvited guest.

Clang! One bolt bounced harmlessly off my scaled arm. The other I caught in clawed fingers.

What a miserable weapon. I'd never have caught a bullet.

"My turn now," I snarled.

"Lower. Yes, like that," Astarot whispered, adjusting my aim.

The bolt flashed back like lightning, piercing its master's skull before vanishing into the smoke.

His convulsing hands squeezed the trigger, the last shot striking his own griffon's wing.

The beast screeched, tossing its head, struggling to tear the bolt free. Its eyes found me, and it was clever enough to know who was to blame.

Perhaps too clever.

A film glazed the griffon's eyes. What it saw terrified it too much to attack on its own, and its rider—the one who might have commanded, was already dead.

With frantic wingbeats and panicked cries, it fled from the demon.

One left.

Awkwardly, I drew a revolver with my clawed hand. Damn. My finger couldn't even find the trigger guard.

I bit my lip, releasing what wasn't needed. No more claws, no more of Astaroth's strength. Better not to abuse it.

I leveled the barrel at the head of the griffon that still hadn't realized… or had it? Its eyes were clouded, muscles rigid. It had simply frozen in terror!

I hesitated. Why kill it? The reins were in my hands; it would make an excellent trophy.

Lingering thoughts lead nowhere good. The griffon blinked. The griffon blinked. It was not smart enough to understand where the demon had gone, but smart enough to understand that an enemy was on its back.

Croaking hoarsely, it tried to roll in midair, to throw me into the lake.

Only no one had told a griffon what a revolver was, or that it shouldn't thrash when one was aimed at the back of its skull.

The shot thundered. Then another. And a third, to be sure. Griffons' fragile, hollow bones were no match for lead. Before it could finish its roll, the beast hurtled headlong toward the water.

And I with it.

The impact blasted me from the saddle, smacking my insides against the surface like a skipping stone. And they say water's safe to fall into!

Two bounces later, I plunged beneath the surface in a storm of spray. Up. Down. My head spun. Nothing made sense in the icy autumn water.

"Up," the demon prompted.

"Which way is up?" I thought, slamming into something. Wood. A boat. My claws tore into its side, crunching through the planks. I hauled my battered body inside. A fisherman cowered at the edge, oar clutched tight. But his eyes said he'd sooner leap overboard than swing it.

"How's the fishing? Biting well?" I asked politely, shaking water from my hair and banishing the demon's claws.

Behind me, the dead griffon floated up, reddening the lake with blood.

"Good, I take it? I had a fine catch myself! Feathered fish, eh? And what a size!" I gestured toward the fallen griffon.

The man shrieked something inarticulate and dove into the lake. So much for conversation.

At least he could've left the oar. How was I supposed to row back to shore now?