Vol 6, Chapter 24

Snow crunched underfoot. The damp white mass clung stubbornly to my boots. Morning was cool, and the timid rays of the sun, barely piercing the overcast sky, had not yet managed to melt it.

The trophy brigades were collecting weapons, mostly axes and short spears. Crude, ugly things, covered in rust. Occasionally a flimsy chainmail shirt would turn up, which had to be pried off the remains with great effort. Nearby, bones were being pulled from the funeral pyres for later reburial. Alas, a pile of logs was far from a crematorium.

New pyres were already being laid in place of the old ones. They would be lit again at night, giving us extra light and giving the enemy a reason to wonder whether they wanted to become fuel themselves.

In the end, the bodies dried out by sacrifice burned quite well. Only one among them had not been such a body.

"Any thoughts, Dolan?"

The former commander of the crossbowmen drew a knife and scraped away the bloody ice that had formed beneath the body.

"Damn snow has covered every trace… and with all the people tramping around here, it's pointless to even try to figure anything out. But one thing is certain: this man was their priest."

"He looks like a common peasant. You're sure?" I asked doubtfully.

In response, the archer grabbed the corpse's sleeve and pulled it up. Numerous scars ran along the arm, evidence that he had bled himself dozens of times.

"Hm. Notice… no fresh wounds. And the other arm?" I remarked.

Dolan dutifully checked the other arm, which was intact as well.

The picture was beginning to take shape.

"So, he didn't want to sacrifice himself, and they forced him with a sword to the back?" I guessed, smiling. "That's good news."

"What's good about that? Whether he wanted to or not, makes no difference. They forced him." Dolan spat.

I shook my head. No, there was a difference, and a very big one. It meant there weren't as many die-hard fanatics among the Duke's loyal servants as I had feared.

But I didn't explain it aloud, especially since a messenger called out from behind us.

"My lord, the glassblower has arrived."

"Excellent. And Stern?"

"Not yet."

I clicked my tongue and waved the messenger away. Hopefully he'd arrive in time. I needed stable lighting, and quickly. The scarce aluminum was better used for lamp reflectors, not wasted for a few minutes of light.

As for the lamps themselves, I still hadn't decided: arc discharge or incandescent, with a carbon filament? Best to just test and see. I only hoped I wouldn't have to explain the concept of vacuum to Stern…

Damn, something told me I would. Fine, we'd figure it out as we went.

A pity there was no one to melt the glass; I'd have to do it the old-fashioned way…

Eh.

Autumn was almost here, but the voyage could not have lasted this long.

And yet, even about the ship with Ashe having sailed, I only knew from the assassin's words… not exactly a reliable source. Nor had there been any news from the agent, who should already have reached the port of the Fourth Duchy.

Cursing Len's slowness in my mind, I pushed away the unpleasant thoughts. No point in worrying, since I couldn't do anything about it yet. If something had happened, then I would need strength to avenge it. Which meant I had to focus on these damned lamps.

The distant sound of a war horn put me on alert.

And not only me. The soldiers stringing barbed wire to replace what had been destroyed pulled off their gloves and seized their muskets.

Another attack?

Movement in the enemy camp was visible to the naked eye. But an aided eye, with optics, was better.

I drew the spyglass from my belt and carefully observed their camp.

My brow rose of its own accord.

Madness was unfolding in the enemy's ranks.

Warriors and peasants hacked at the earth with axes, cut it with knives and swords, tore at it with bare hands. More and more joined in this senseless task under the stern supervision of knights.

It clicked when I noticed a group of servants clustered around one of their number digging with a shovel. After a dozen frantic strokes, he passed the tool to another, who began digging just as frantically, flinging earth over everyone.

Wait, do they just not have enough shovels?

Indeed. I scanned the camp. Across the whole army there were barely a dozen shovels. The rest were digging with whatever they could, unafraid of ruining their weapons. I snorted, unable to stifle a grin. A shovel was as vital to an infantryman as a musket. In my army, there were more shovels than swords!

I peered again through the spyglass, trying to understand what exactly they were digging. Graves? But why in front of us, instead of behind the lines?

After five minutes it became clear: they were trying to copy our trenches. They were building defenses.

Hm.

I had to admit, it was a sensible move. Sooner or later we'd have shells again for artillery barrages, and then trenches really could help them reduce losses.

"Well, well, they learn," I murmured thoughtfully, putting the spyglass back on my belt.

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◆ Fourth Duchy, Seaport, Len's POV. ◆

"Never heard of such a ship," the innkeeper waved dismissively.

Blatant lie.

Len had already made the rounds of many establishments, even checked the port authority, so he knew for certain that the owner of this dive on the edge of the harbor personally knew Captain Espluar. Once again, he had to untie his purse and lay a full gold coin on the counter.

"A small donation refreshes your memory?"

The tavern keeper instantly snatched the coin and bit it.

"Well, I suppose I do recall him. Hasn't docked in our port for a long while."

Len nodded. He already knew the ship he sought had never arrived in port. But perhaps someone doing business with the captain might know where else he could have anchored?

"Where is he hiding?" Len pressed.

In reply, the tavern keeper fixed his gaze on Len's purse. The hint was obvious, damned petty bourgeois…

A second coin vanished beneath the greasy apron.

"Where, you ask? At the bottom of the sea."

"Heh. Aren't you trying to protect your friend? There was something very important in his hold for my ataman!"

"Then you're out of luck. I have a hunch, one that convinces me he's feeding the fish. Give me another couple of coins, and I'll share it."

Len clenched his fist. This bloated, unkempt man demanded money for his idle musings as if he were some great sage! Money earned by the sweat of common folk. A soulless extortionist! Len unclenched his fist and placed another coin on the table.

"I don't believe this thought is worth several coins."

"Hmm. It'll do." The coin vanished instantly into the pudgy hand with its broken, yellow nails. This time he didn't even bother to bite it.

"Now listen. Flint was no fool, and he didn't limit himself to ordinary trade, you understand?" The tavern keeper gave a conspiratorial wink, then whispered with tragic weight. "He was a smuggler."

"And you betrayed him for a single gold coin," Len couldn't help but remark.

"The dead can't complain. He won't be taking revenge on me."

Len nodded. The predatory nature of merchants was once again confirmed. Profit above all.

"So then, if in our… in this line of work, a ship fails to arrive in port, there aren't many options. You know what that means. Rest in peace, as they say." The tavern keeper folded his hands in mock prayer.

"Much vague talk, little substance. I doubt your people would sink a ship without first emptying the hold. What became of the passengers? Did you see a girl with crimson hair in port? Mages of the Commonwealth, of fire and metal?" Len asked, sweetening the question with another coin.

"So many questions, so little gold. I see your purse is still heavy, guest. Care to share?" The tavern keeper smirked.

Len reached toward the coin, intent on taking it back.

"These questions I can ask elsewhere."

With enviable speed, the pudgy hand snatched the coin away.

"Now, now, no need for that. I can answer. There are plenty of mages of the Commonwealth here—this is one of the largest ports of the Kingdom, after all. But no metal mages. As for a red-haired lady, yes, I've seen one wandering about town. Tall, older. I can even find out what brought her here, for a separate fee, of course."

Len shook his head. The description was the complete opposite of the one he sought. Curse it, so much money wasted.

"Any more questions?" The tavern keeper smiled broadly, displaying his yellow teeth.

"Your answers are far too expensive."

"In that case, I can offer a mug of ale. Free of charge. Sit, drink, rest." The innkeeper waved his hand and began twisting the rusted tap of a barrel to pour the drink.

The sour smell did nothing for Len's appetite, but he did not object. Settling at a grimy table, he opened his satchel. Ink, quill, paper. He dipped the quill and wrote:

"Espluar never arrived in port. As for his passengers…"

He hesitated a moment. Should he write that they were likely dead?

"Hey, you." A coarse voice broke his thoughts.

Without asking permission, a patron dropped onto the bench opposite him—a brute a head taller and twice as broad.

"What do you want, comrade?" Len asked, pausing to sharpen his quill.

"Comrade, eh? Good word. If we're comrades, then share your money. Like comrades do. You've got too much of it, I see."

"Yes, I've got plenty of money," Len agreed, casting a glance toward the counter. Surely the tavern keeper had sicced this thug on him. "But I don't like freeloaders. Do you work?"

"Uh… yeah, I load cargo. And sometimes help out here." He rasped, caught off guard.

"A stevedore then. How much do they pay you for loading?"

"Ten coppers a day."

"Too little, and this is one of the largest ports. Goods worth tens, even hundreds of thousands of gold pass through here. Is it fair that workers are paid so little?"

He scratched his nose, then admitted, "Unfair."

Len nodded paternally.

"And how much did the tavern keeper promise you to rough me up?"

"Ten silver." The thug confessed.

Len drew out his nearly full purse and tapped it with a finger.

"There are several dozen gold here. Think: is that a fair price he offered you? Perhaps your employer is a greedy exploiter?"

"An ex… what?" The brute scratched his head, eyes still fixed on the purse.

"He doesn't pay you honestly, and now he's pushing you to provoke a man who flashes gold in a place like this. Do you think I'd do that if I couldn't protect it?" Len lowered his voice, a threatening undertone in his words.

The veil of greed lifted from the stevedore's eyes, and he swallowed hard.

"You're right, man… This smells like a setup. Not right."

Len slowly untied the purse, set a gold coin on the table, and nudged it toward the brute.

"Now you work for me, and for the good of the working people."

The man cast a doubtful glance at the tavern keeper, then tested the coin with his nail.

"I don't get it, but I'm in."

"A proper decision. Conscious."

Len put away the purse and returned to his quill.

"As for his passengers… their fate is still unknown."

Now he just needed to wait for the ink to dry. And since there were a few spare minutes…

Len looked up at the hulking fellow.

"Tell me, have you heard of the bourgeoisie and workers' rights? No? Let me explain…"

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◆ Unknown, Inner Sea, Captain Flint's POV. ◆


A sail stitched from sailors' clothing flapped limply. Dead calm.

For days now it had been either dead calm or gusty headwinds. In such cases the sails had to be taken down, the damaged rigging only got in the way. Even with a beam wind, the patched sails barely managed to push the vessel in the desired direction…

Or rather, in the direction the captain considered necessary.

The charts of currents, the navigation instruments, all had burned along with his cabin. He had to rely only on memory and the stars, yet overcast skies made even that impossible. The ship dropped anchor more and more often, just to check its course. Food was running out. The crew grumbled. The currents grew stronger, carrying the ship who knew where, forcing the captain to strain himself ever harder to bring it back on course. The navigator tried to help by steering the wind, but the makeshift sails tore again and again.

Yet the ship continued to move. Somewhere across the boundless expanse of sea.

Day by day it grew colder, and the rations smaller. At least there was no shortage of water: an experienced water mage had no trouble purifying seawater. But even he was weakening. With each passing day, Captain Flint looked more and more exhausted.

The endless drifting wore on everyone. It seemed that if they just sailed straight, they would eventually arrive… anywhere. It no longer mattered where, in what country, even in a cursed desert among djinn!

But the ship seemed to sail in circles. The current tugged the battered frigate along like a gentle leash, the wind shoved it aside. Time after time the captain forced the vessel back on course whenever he managed to check the heavens.

After a whole week without a single glimpse of stars through the clouds, he gave up. He no longer even knew approximately where they were or where they were headed. But the wind blowing cold at his back whispered: it was the wrong way.

And there was nothing more he could do. Food was gone, the men were emaciated. Twice already the hull had required urgent patching after attacks by giant moray eels. He thanked himself then for bringing enough spare planks, and even stopped cursing himself for not taking replacement sails.

Ha. The main ones had cost nearly a third of the ship; enchanted properly, able to withstand any storm. The mast would sooner break than those sails. They did not wear out, did not rot, did not tear. The ship's mage could fill them with as much wind as he wished, driving the frigate to impressive speeds… but now those sails were nothing but ash.

The next morning, they were surrounded by fog.

Icy vapor coiled above the water so thickly that from the crow's nest the deck was invisible. Cold. The air was so frigid that every breath came out in steam. Even the freezing sea felt warm compared to the wind. Half-naked sailors hid in their cabins, avoiding the deck. The lookout was crusted with icicles, straining to spot anything in the haze.

The gunports of the lightning cannons were left open, letting the wind whistle through the ship. Better that than to be unready for an attack. Who knew what lurked in the fog…

The captain stood on deck with his eyes closed. Looking was pointless: thanks to his Gift and the mist he could sense the space around the ship.

But whether from fatigue or something else, he could barely sense beyond a few dozen meters. Magic dissolved willingly into the mist without leaving a trace. The ship had become a blind man groping his way through a pale shroud.

Flint frowned. He felt the current sharply strengthen, but could not understand why. He could not even gauge how much; even just sensing it drained him.

"Cast the rope! I want to know our speed in knots," he ordered.

A sailor, shivering from cold, dropped one end into the water and began the count. Knot after knot after knot unspooled.

For a moment the captain's attention wavered, and it nearly doomed the ship.

There was an obstacle ahead, too close.

Reefs? Land? No… He felt ice. An iceberg.

If nothing were done, they would be smashed. The captain seized the water with invisible hands, forcing it upward into a wave. The sea resisted, as though refusing his command.

His Source drained dry, every drop of mana poured into the effort.

The frigate's bow lurched skyward, nearly tossing the lookout off.

The crunch of icicles and timbers. The keel scraped the bottom, the ship sliding another dozen meters on momentum, the deck tilting, the vessel rolling onto its side like a whale beached on the shore.

A ringing built in his skull. The overstrained Source yearned to restore itself, but there was nothing around to draw from. Not a trace of energy. Emptiness. The captain's body slipped across the deck, too weak to hold, and fell overboard.

Splash!

Seawater, flung ashore with the ship, cushioned his fall. Slush all around. Snow melting, cold steam rising from the water.

Sailors and passengers poured out of the frigate. Asha rubbed a lump on her head and looked around, trying to understand what had happened. Everywhere—frozen wasteland, snowy hummocks scattering snowflakes in the wind. The air filled with more and more of them as the gale rose. A blizzard was beginning.

A gust tore the snowcap from the nearest hummock. Beneath was revealed a mast, an ice-covered hull… a ship.

Then the other hummocks…? Asha's gaze swept the icy expanse. Dozens of them. Were they all ships, cast ashore and frozen into the ice?

Through the snow, something else loomed.

She raised her eyes, higher and higher, trying to find where it ended.

But she could not.

Everywhere she looked, beyond the curtain of snow, was ice. It filled the horizon, dwarfed everything. Hypnotized, she stared through the storm, unable to comprehend the sheer size of it. It did not merely hang above them, this mass seemed intent on crushing them. For a moment she thought she saw the frozen bulk shift. She recoiled, instinctively glancing back toward the fog from which they had come. Yes, that thing had not been there. What relief.

"Bad news. That is definitely the Peak of the World's Center," Marvin said calmly, while the crew struggled to drag the captain back aboard. Cold water streamed across the deck.

The young fire mage stretched out his hands, filling the captain's soaked clothes with warmth.

"Save… your mana," Flint managed to warn before sinking into darkness.

The mage jerked his hands back and tried to draw magic from the surroundings.

The Source would not replenish.