Vol 7, Chapter 3

◆ Frontline ◆

"I'm glad you were able to visit us in person, Uncle Avram…" Tamilla greeted him, though her voice faded beneath the thunder of an artillery salvo.

"Especially in a place like this," she added once the ringing in her ears subsided and the bunker's ceiling stopped showering grit.

"Oh, I've held meetings in far more dangerous places," the banker said, offering a small bow, stooping his already hunched back a bit more than usual. "May I ask, Count Condor, what prompted such an urgent invitation? It seems our business is proceeding well, bringing mutual profit to us both."

"I think you already know perfectly well why you're here," I answered, laying a captured sword on the table.

"Alas, I haven't the slightest idea… Are you dissatisfied with the terms of our contract?" he replied, with the faintest hint of menace.

So that was his game. Pretend nothing had happened and everything could continue as before.

It would not.

"Very well, then let me bring you up to speed. Three days ago, my… convoy was attacked by a group of saboteurs who, by strange coincidence, happened to be armed with swords I had sold to you. After interrogations, the survivors admitted that once the griffons had ferried them into the rear, they were given a crate of blades absolutely identical to those in which we ship you your goods. I trust you have a suitable explanation for this, yes?"

For a while, the hall was filled only with the sound of gunfire overhead — the Duke had sent another wave of expendables, it seemed.

The banker coughed briefly.

"I believe I do have an explanation for such a coincidence. You see, all the cargo we purchase from you is moved in secret, smuggled. And yes, much of it does go to the First Duchy, according to our needs. Unfortunately, under such circumstances it is entirely possible some cargo is confiscated and falls into the wrong hands. I regret that."

I glanced at Tamilla. She hesitated, then gave a small nod.

"Yes, it seems that's all true. Except for the last part. Uncle Avram does not regret it."

"It was a figure of speech. Politeness," the Hardan said with a shrug. "Have I dispelled your doubts?"

"Not in the least. You've only suggested how it might have happened, not how it did. Let me try, then. With the war and its losses, the Duke's need for weapons grew. At first you may not have intended to sell to him — it wasn't in your interest to strengthen him. But as prices rose higher and higher… I'm certain the hundreds of thousands of gold you invested became a heavy burden even for you, and the temptation to recoup some losses and gain a surplus proved too great. At some point you sold a few shipments to the Duke." I finished, folding my hands.

Whistles of sergeants echoed from above, trophy brigades heading to the battlefield. Gather weapons, burn bodies.

The Hardan fell silent, thinking, calculating options. He clearly disliked that I had decided to raise this subject. At last he spoke.

"That is… an interesting theory, but I fear its truth is open to doubt."

"Then simply say directly that you did not sell my weapons to the First Duke. Tamilla will gladly provide your alibi," I said with a smile.

"Once purchased, weapons change owners. From the moment you sold them to me, they ceased to be yours," the banker reminded cautiously, which was as good as a confession of treachery.

"I'll clarify. Did you sell weapons forged in Reikland to the First Duke? Yes or no?" I demanded harshly.

"It seems our conversation is over. Kindly repay the remainder of your debt on time," Avram said, rising from his chair and shuffling toward the exit, leaning on his gilded cane.

I cocked the hammer.

"Return to your seat."

"Randall!" Tamilla exclaimed.

The banker did not slow his pace, purposefully shuffling toward the door.

My finger pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out.

The bullet whistled past his blond head and slammed into the concrete wall, showering his fine suit with chips of stone.

"The next one goes in your leg, and my soldiers will drag you back to that chair anyway. Better to go yourself," I shouted over the ringing in my ears.

The banker sighed and returned to his seat. Tamilla crossed her arms, muttering something under her breath that I couldn't catch through the ringing.

"You truly mean to ruin our deal over a few crates of blades?" he asked reproachfully, brushing dust from his gold-embroidered suit.

"I'd ruin it over a single sword. You should have considered that when you chose to turn a profit."

He struck the concrete floor with his cane.

"What's the point? With your weapons, why worry about a few swords? That I do business with anyone profitable — has this wounded your pride as a ruler? I thought you more reasonable."

"This isn't about pride. It's about principle. Truly, I don't care whether the Duke's soldiers hold my swords or sticks. Neither will help them win. But selling our weapons to the enemy — that is outright treason. Rumors are already spreading among my soldiers that you're supplying the foe. Which means sooner or later, they'll reach Reikland as well."

"Rumors? So what? What difference does it make what the people think? Just order them to keep working. Unless, of course, you still need my gold!?"

"The loyalty of my people matters more. It doesn't matter how I personally view your actions. What matters is that those who fight for me see it as vile betrayal. And as their leader, I must put you in your place. The battle seems over, so you will go above and apologize."

"I could apologize here. Or is this place too small to serve as a stage?" he hissed through clenched teeth.

"A stage? No. I don't need your apology. You must apologize before my men."

"And what if I refuse? Will you kill me?"

"No. Worse."

He raised his white brows questioningly.

"You've bought hundreds of thousands of blades already. An unimaginable number. I doubt there are enough Hardans in the world to wield them all. Do you think I don't realize what you're planning to do with them?"

"Our trade affairs are none of your concern, Count."

"No. From now on, they are. I know you're waiting for the moment when the Duchy weakens enough to stab it in the back. Waiting for the Duke to die, for his vassals to scatter. Then you'll raise a rebellion to carve out your own state."

The banker shrugged with deliberate indifference.

"Well, suppose so."

"Fine. But what makes you think I'll tolerate your state on lands that will be mine in the future?"

He ground his teeth silently.

I gave him a few minutes to think, then continued.

"This matter with the swords marks a line. Depending on which way we step, we will become either allies or enemies. I strongly advise against the latter."

"Allies, ha." He gave a bitter smile. "You mean vassals, don't you? And what's the difference from what we have now? We fight for freedom, not to change masters!"

Avram turned his gaze on Tamilla.

"And you… You support him?"

"I always thought rebellion a foolish venture. Too much blood will be spilled, which is bad for business. I'm fine with things as they are."

"Because of people like you, Hardania never rose again…"

"Enough," I cut him off. "Did I say the word vassal? I promise you will be allowed to found an independent state…"

"And how independent will it be?" the banker interrupted ironically, springing up from his chair.

"More independent than now. Or not at all. You must accept reality," I snapped.

The banker breathed heavily, then angrily cast his cane aside and sat again.

"Your terms?"

"As I said — you will apologize before my men."

A croaking laugh echoed in the room. For several minutes the banker couldn't stop, until a fit of coughing silenced him.

"You're serious?" he wheezed.

"That is the first, but not the only condition."

"As expected… Go on."

"The second condition is more active participation in the war. You will no longer hide in your burrows, quietly sharpening blades. No more waiting for the opportune moment to strike — you will create it."

"That is far too risky."

"Only those who risk their lives for freedom each day are worthy of them." I pulled out Petri dishes from a desk drawer, each holding a strain of mold. "I happened to breed some damned resilient molds, and you have an extensive network of agents… so your first task will be to infect all the army's grain depots."

Avram frowned.

"They are well guarded. It will be far easier to infect the civilian granaries."

"No."

The banker lifted a shocked gaze.

"But if only the army's stores are ruined, the Duke will simply plunder the peasants' barns. Nothing will change."

"It will. We won't touch the common people's grain. Every one of them must know that as long as the grain is in their village, it's safe."

"It would be better to destroy it all. The Duke doesn't care for the people, he'll just—"

"Exactly. The Duke will take it, condemning them to starvation. But that will be his choice. And our people will explain this to the peasants."

"I don't quite follow the logic. The greater the famine, the easier it will be to crush the Duchy… but I agree to this condition. Fine. We'll infect only the army's stores."

"The next step will be uprisings. Peasants without food will have nothing to lose, and they won't surrender grain to foragers without a fight. We must support them."

"We planned as much. But… the Duke has recalled most of the knights back to their lands. Even if we arm peasants with swords, their revolt will be crushed easily," Avram mused, scratching his bent nose.

I pulled a pistol from my desk and placed it on the tabletop.

"That's why I'm ready to arm them with real weapons, not these toothpicks. If we are allies, then we should treat each other as allies. I will send instructors. The best of them will soon arrive here from the port of the Fourth Duchy. They will handle ideological training and teach your people how to use explosives. You have an extensive underground network, so use it."

Avram looked stunned.

"You truly mean to hand us your alchemical weapons? Your trump card? Just like that?"

"Yes."

He shook his head.

"I admit, our alchemists have long been trying to replicate them… But are you not afraid that once we gain independence, we might turn them against you?"

My lips curved into a grin. Considering that I stood on the threshold of another leap forward in progress, this was the best use for the stockpiled muzzle-loaders and black powder.

"Not afraid at all. But I would advise you to fear even the thought of it… otherwise our alliance will end with the inevitable result."

For nearly ten minutes he was silent. Then he rose from his chair and picked up his cane.

"Well then… Let us sign an alliance treaty on behalf of a Hardania yet to be reborn."

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◆ Center of the World, Marvin and Ashley's POV. ◆

Chuff-chuff! The steam cylinders occupying a quarter of the hold hissed, and the propellers began to turn, slicing through the frosty air.

"Hm, they really do push the wind. But are you sure they'll drive us forward in water?" the first mate asked, brushing the air behind the boat with his Gift.

"You never made wind-up toy boats and floated them down city canals?" Ashley exclaimed in surprise.

"I preferred sailboats and blew on them with wind," Naik replied.

"Boring."

"Pff," he snorted and turned back to the ship.

Black clouds of smoke rose from the stern.

The Espluar was blackened with soot. Not only from countless steam engine tests. It was packed to the brim with planks and coal taken from a neighboring vessel. The captain would have been horrified at how filthy his ship had become — but alas, Flint was still in a coma.

And not only him. He now had company in the form of Ashir-girl, who had claimed his tricorne.

The three remaining mages had to do the work of five to get everything ready.

"Are you sure you can melt the ice?" the navigator asked Marvin for the hundredth time.

He nodded, almost confidently. Fortunately, he would have some help.

The ship had long since frozen into the ice. Worse, the water level dropped a few centimeters every day, gradually forming a new shore. The ice island was expanding. Slowly but inevitably.

"Remember, darling, if we damage the propellers, we're finished."

The fire mage waved his wife off; he'd heard it a million times.

The air was dead calm. Even the snowflakes fell straight down. Only the hot air from the bonfires around the ship made them swirl.

"Grant us your aid, All-God," the navigator murmured, folding his hands before heading aboard. The crew followed after him.

Everyone but Marvin. To save strength, he needed to touch the ship and stay close to the bonfires.

The sailors checked the ropes binding the mage and gave the signal.

The captured sails were unfurled. The captain would have approved, for the Expedition's sails weren't much worse than his old ones, even if all their enchantments had faded.

The bosun's bells rang. A sharp signal echoed across the icy wasteland.

It was time.

Marvin rolled up his sleeves and drew heat from the surrounding bonfires. Even such a simple action drained his strength. One by one the fires went out, but the hull sank deeper into the water. A centimeter. Two. Ten.

He melted the ice at an angle, so the ship could gain momentum, so the current wouldn't smash the stern propellers in the first seconds.

Half the work wasn't done yet, and blood was already running from his nose — the sign of his limit. The bonfires dwindled. A moment ago, glowing embers now lay buried under snow.

But the ice melted. And melted. Steam mingled with fog, veiling all sight.

With the last of his strength, he broke through the ice wedge that kept the ship from sliding, then collapsed into the water.

"Wind! Wind!" Ashley cried as sailors hauled his body aboard before the propellers shredded him.

The sails filled. Gusts swept away both fog and steam, clearing ice and water for dozens of meters. The wind caught the ship and sped it forward. The vessel raced down the icy slope, propellers thrashing the air madly. IMPACT!

The hull struck the water, and the current seized the ship like a giant, trying to drive it back ashore. The vessel rocked side to side. The propellers splashed, sometimes breaking the surface.

"More wind!" Ashley demanded.

"We're too close to shore! We should've cut down the sailors and restored our mana to fling ourselves farther out. If we can't get at least a hundred meters from shore, nothing will help us! The current is devilishly strong!" the head complained.

Ignoring the whining demon, the girl went below to the boilers. Her strength was low, but she had to increase speed.

The navigator spent the last of his strength, the mast cracked, sails tore in the storm's gusts — the ship gained ten meters. The propellers finally sank fully into the icy water and struggled against the raging current.

Below, sailors pumped the bellows, heating the furnace to its limit.

The wooden stern charred, the heat from the boilers scorched skin. The pistons rattled the hull so violently it seemed it would fly apart any moment. Iron groaned and hissed, slick with olive oil and lard. Smoke, soot, and steam poured from every seam.

The flywheel wailed. The ship held still. Currents smashed against its bow, threatening to spin it and crush it against an iceberg. The helmsman went gray before their eyes, gripping the wheel with trembling hands. Next to him, the navigator collapsed, unable to stand.

The sails sagged, drained of power.

A second. Another.

They moved. The sharpened blades of the propellers carved water, winning back centimeter by centimeter. The shore fell away.

The farther they went, the more speed the vessel gathered, defying the weakening current. One knot. Two. Five.

The ice island yielded, releasing its captives.

The Peak of the World vanished behind impenetrable fog, awaiting its next victims.