Vol 7, Chapter 7

◆ Royal Palace, Dastan the First's POV. ◆


The life of any magical world moves in a spiral. At first, it is weak. Its mages can hardly manage more than parlor tricks.

It seems like a closed circle. Mages cannot grow stronger until the world is filled with magic, but the world will not fill with magic until its mages grow stronger.

Yet the soul of the gifted produces a little mana. Each new generation inherits slightly more than the one before.

In a sense, this is irreversible. One mage is enough to make more and more of them appear. Magic is a contagion that erodes the laws of existence… or perhaps the Gift can alter those laws?

No one remembered how magic first came into their world. It was so long ago that it seemed as though it had always been there. Hundreds of thousands of years had passed since.

Magic is a spiral. Stronger mages produced more mana, which birthed yet stronger mages. Stronger and stronger still. And the faith of such people was greater than that of the rest.

It was an age of wars and crises. Most worlds perished, becoming desolate wastelands, twisted by magic.

But they survived. They were fortunate: they did not, through blind faith, create a tyrant god, and no wandering god stumbled upon their world—at least not at a time when they were unable to resist…

They prevailed. United their world. Avoided self-destruction through civil wars. Each time, they managed to restrain the surging power of the younger generation of mages who repeatedly sought to overthrow the order.

They reached the threshold of divinity.

The mages of the Empire drank tea with demons of the Abyss, visited other worlds, and created pocket dimensions. They stood as equals with the lesser gods.

But the elder gods had their own opinion. Even for those who fed on hundreds of worlds, the Empire was the perfect feeding ground.

All they had to do was force mortals into submission.

It did not work.

Ragnarök ended in disaster. The gods were defeated.

Shamefully slain by mortal mages. Yet the mortals had not truly won either.

The faith of the already subjugated worlds resurrected the fallen gods again and again. It was no easy feat to kill one who had stepped onto the next plane of existence. The war dragged on.

Two options remained: either destroy hundreds of worlds, or seal the gods away. Send them to the edge of the universe, into the void. Without miracles, faith itself would wither, and they would die.

It seemed to have worked.

Dastan opened his eyes. Outside the palace, workers were dismantling the remains of the fortress wall. In the squares, people praised his name. It seemed they had even given him a title—Dastan the Peacemaker.

Amusing. He even felt faint threads of power flowing into him from the citizens of the Capital.

Yet his body still ached. Though he had not taken a single blow, the body of the Third Prince could not fight as effectively as his former one. This was the second reason why he had not slain the insolent zealots of the Theocracy—recovering afterward would have taken unacceptably long.

He stretched, scraped away the dried blood beneath his nose, and rang a bell. The servant appeared so quickly it seemed he had been waiting at the door. Perhaps he had. A stack of reports landed on the table, and the servant departed to fetch the counselors. The King randomly picked one report. Thanks to his brother, he had neglected state affairs for too long. It was time to see what he had missed while sailing into the Commonwealth.

The door opened silently, admitting counselors, officials, and courtiers. The spacious study immediately felt crowded.

"The Commonwealth fleet sailed out of the southern bay," he read, then flipped the page. "And this doesn't say when it happened?"

"Yesterday evening, Your Majesty."

"Just as I predicted. Send word we are ready to supply provisions. I wouldn't want them to abandon the operation if they got stuck in the sands without food."

The King reached for the next sheet. One Count spreading rumors… nonsense… a new shop opened, suspicion of smuggling, Commonwealth agents arrested… nonsense, nonsense, nonsense… Oh!

"Countess Erin von Klaus has appeared in her castle and is raising troops," the King said thoughtfully.

Had the assassin ended the suffering of the Third Duke, or not yet? That would need checking.

He set the sheet aside from the rest. Next.

"Hm, Karl von Condor was sighted in the Fourth Duchy, and you don't know what he's doing there?" The King waved the next report.

"We will find out at once," the plump-cheeked spymaster bowed quickly.

"Prepare grounds for stripping his House of lands while you're at it. It should have been done long ago. Otherwise, there'll be formal complications with the First Duchy, and we don't need that. By the way, why don't I see news of his successes?"

The assembly hesitated. The atmosphere turned instantly uncomfortable.

"Your Majesty… there are none."

The King raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"To your right, Your Majesty…  the list," the archivist coughed softly, speaking with care.

Dastan glanced over it.

"Count Gaston, Baron Trudeau, Baron… Baron… Count… What is this?"

"A list of those stricken from the book of Houses. They are dead."

The King deliberately set the list aside with care.

"All right. Who can explain to me clearly what is going on there? Count Chalk, perhaps you, as head of intelligence?"

The plump-cheeked Count turned pale at once, living up to his name.

"With the death of your father, we lost contact with many deep-cover agents…"

"That is not what I asked!"

"I-I… We cannot say with certainty, but it gives the impression…"

"Enough, Viscount Chalk. General, can you clarify matters?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. According to reports from observers and witnesses, throughout the entire conflict we have not seen any troop movements. The County's army occupied the heights first, set up camp, and constructed field fortifications of unprecedented scale. The Duke's army attacked unsuccessfully from several directions, achieving some success near the Goblin Forest, but was also forced to make camp and build fortifications. Both sides are at a stalemate."

"And what kind of fortifications could the Duke not breach even with griffons?" the King asked skeptically.

"Numerous trenches, stakes, walls, and irregular barriers that completely prevent the use of knightly cavalry."

"Very well, then why did they not dismount and storm the defenses? I thought the County had few knights. Could peasants really have stopped them?"

"Your Majesty. If I may… a moment."

The King burned the general with his gaze but gave a permissive nod. A few minutes later, a guardsman brought into the chamber a strange iron tube.

"This is one of the weapons recovered by the royal spies during the Condor uprising at Eagle's Cliff. Several more were found in the Royal Vault, along with test records."

The King extended his hand. The general tried to give him the reports, but he waved them away.

"No, fool. Give me the weapon."

The guardsman, trembling with nerves, passed the rifle to the King.

He scanned it carefully with his Gift, running his hands over the barrel and stock.

"Runes of fire, lightning… a magic core at the rear. Primitive. A wretched imitation of battle staves." Dastan snorted and tossed the rifle back to the guardsman. "And how many dozens of these do the Condors have?"

The guardsman fumbled, dropping it, the steel barrel denting the parquet. Uneasy silence filled the air.

"Hundreds?" the King demanded.

Clearing his throat, the spymaster dared to speak.

"According to our information… at least thousands. More likely, tens of thousands."

"Impossible." The King waved it off. "A core that size would suffice for only a few fireballs, after which it must be replaced."

"Your Majesty, the records state they are used differently. Damp charcoal and a projectile are loaded inside, and once triggered, the bolt flies at great speed—many times faster than the best bolt-thrower. The reports say this method makes more efficient use of energy."

The King strode forward, snatching the weapon back from the guardsman for closer inspection.

"I still don't understand. A thousand, perhaps… but ten thousand? Even producing such numbers would be a problem. Where would he get that many cores?"

"In the Black Forest," the spymaster said quietly, lowering his eyes. He knew well enough that tens of thousands was closer to the truth, but he would rather march into a manticore's maw than try to convince the King.

Dastan turned the weapon in his hands thoughtfully.

"Yes. The Forest. Hunting there has been suicide for years, so indeed there must be many cores… But I think that is not the only reason. The Fourth Duchy is the primary seller of cores, and the former Count clearly went there not for tea. No doubt he intends to claim even more cores. Arrest him and bring him here."."

"At once." The general bowed low.

"And… hm. Gather the court wind mages, a couple of ritual masters, and alchemists as well, including the head of the Guild. Immediately."

"It will be done."

The King smiled faintly and carefully set the magic rifle on his desk.

Well, if the First Duke cannot handle matters, he would have to intervene. Time to show the
upstarts how magic is meant to be used on the battlefield.

*******************************************************

◆ Frontline, First Duke's POV. ◆

"The first and second tunnels have reached the enemy lines. The third will be ready by morning," a knight reported, kneeling.

The First Duke, clad in peasant garb so strange on him, nodded gravely.

"A hoe and a spade, those are what bring down castle walls… Still, load the trebuchets with barrels of lamp oil. Just in case."

"Yes, my lord!" The knight struck his chest and departed.

In his place stepped a young squire.

"My lord, the Royal mages are still waiting for your answer."

"What? I told them clearly—no alchemical filth on my lands!"

"They asked me to convey that this is not the answer they are waiting for."

"Arrogant wretches… Very well, let them wait. They will see nothing but my victory."

The Duke turned away in contempt. Mages. Everywhere, damned mages. Because of them, even night resembled day.

The hills blazed with pillars of light. They blinded, swept across the ground, searching for signs of attack. Like the glowing eyes of a beast, they were everywhere. Not only on the earth, but also in the sky. Ridiculous cloth bags had also grown eyes, piercing people with their gaze like ants.

At least those bags could be dealt with.

In the night silence, wings beat and springs snapped. As every night, several griffon riders crept close, loosed a volley of arrows, and immediately fled. Bullets whistled after them, bright flashes bursting in the sky. Often the griffons escaped unharmed, but not always.

The aerostat began to lose height; the crew twisted the burner, stoking the flames, jettisoned ballast, and safely brought the balloon down in the rear. By morning it will be patched, once more an eyesore in the skies.

The same thing, day after day…

Even the loss of one of the glowing eyes changed nothing. Across the field, scarred by iron, dozens more beams swept about. Steel horns would sweep away anyone caught in their gaze.

Any attack across the ground would be suicide...

But the Duke gave the order.

New recruits were driven to their deaths with blows from sticks. More than usual, but not so many as to make the enemy suspicious. Gunfire thundered, blood soaked the field. Of course, the attack would not succeed.

But it would draw attention, and the roar of guns and cries of the dying would cover the sound of hoes and spades at work.

The Duke descended into the trenches. Dozens of knights in full armor awaited their moment. Behind them, hundreds of seasoned soldiers. Their task was to break a breach and unleash a slaughter. After that… the peasants would flood the enemy trenches. It would not be easy for the foe to reclaim the hills.

"My lord." The armored men knelt. They recognized their lord easily, even in peasant garb.

The Duke gave a majestic nod.

One of the three tunnels was still unfinished, but the longer they waited, the greater the chance of discovery. He was certain there was an earth mage among the enemy—otherwise, it would have been impossible to raise real fortresses on those hills. And so…

"Commence the assault."

A long, narrow earthen corridor. The knight advanced carefully, taking care not to touch the wooden supports that kept the soil from collapsing.

To shorten the work time, they had sacrificed passage width; even two men could scarcely pass each other in the tunnel. For armored knights with shields, it was utterly impossible.

There was their target. A gray stone wall, the same material as the fortifications on the hill. The peasants had cleared a space before it, and the knights packed into it like sardines in a net. Two of them produced hammers. All that remained was to smash the obstacle, and they would be inside.

Blow after blow rained down, cracks spread through the wall. The knights worked fast, sparing no strength. They understood the enemy must already hear them, perhaps even raising the alarm.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Stone сhips flew in every direction, dust filled the tunnel. The hammerhead broke through into empty space. Knights snapped off the twisted iron spikes embedded in the stone and passed the hammers to their comrades. Those, with renewed vigor, widened the breach so that at least a knight could squeeze through sideways.

Minute by minute. Still no cries from beyond, except for those rumbling directly overhead. The ground shook, cannons roared. Perhaps the enemy would not even notice the steady blows of the hammers?

The opening was made. The first knight squeezed through and found himself in a small, completely empty chamber. Ahead stood a steel door—not a true barrier for a metal adept, but first he turned to help his comrade into the room.

A mistake.

With a grating screech, the door swung open, forcing the uninvited guests to freeze in place. The figure entering looked like a demon: a drawn-out mask of gray material, glass eyes reflecting fire.

Fire that burned at the tip of its short tube, aimed straight at the knights. Thick-gloved fingers clenched a lever.

A stream of burning liquid burst toward the knights, clinging to their armor, seeping through the  joints.

And it burned. Wrapped in fire, they could do nothing. They saw nothing but the flames dancing before their visors.

Behind the first flamethrower stepped a second. Cold-bloodedly striding past the thrashing figures, he turned his nozzle on the breach and poured a fresh torrent of fire.

The tunnels filled with roaring flame.

It drowns out the screams of burning men, just as it drowns out the sounds of battle on the surface. Warriors shove against each other in the overcrowded passage, trying to flee the fire chasing them… in vain. Wooden beams blackened in the heat.

In the neighboring tunnel, a similar scene. Thick smoke already reached the Duke's camp. Only in the third tunnel was there still calm.

Sweaty, exhausted peasants dug steadily, passing full buckets along a chain. The sounds of battle had become familiar; no one noticed that the cries were more than usual.

Nor did they notice someone already digging toward them.

The earthen wall collapsed without warning.

A peasant swung his hoe, but a bayonet shovel struck his throat.

A brief skirmish followed, lasting only as long as it took the soldiers to set aside their shovels and seize real weapons. A few gunshots sent the peasants fleeing, while the soldiers stepped aside to let the flamethrowers through.

The third tunnel too became a fiery hell.

Streams of fire burst from all three breaches in the Duke's camp. Peasants poured water desperately into them, but it was useless.

The ground sagged. Charred beams could no longer support the tunnel ceilings. One after another collapsed, and as if that were not enough, explosions shook the earth below. The ground heaved, shockwaves smashed the smoldering beams, and peasants with buckets were thrown off their feet.

All three tunnels were utterly destroyed.

The Duke clenched his teeth in fury as he watched. His peasant shirt strained at the seams, his hands reached for his axe.

"Good… Good. I don't care if my lands will be poisoned. Tell the mages—they may do as they will. I will accept their aid."