Vol 6, Chapter 22

◆ Military Camp of the First Duke, Count Gaston's POV. ◆


The field camp turned out to be much closer than expected, and in the morning sunlight, it looked rather shabby.

Patches and burn holes marred the tents. Many servants flaunted blood-soaked bandages, and the knights' armor was smeared with soot. Count Gaston sniffed the air, catching an acrid smell of burning drifting from the camp. A fire? With a puzzled shrug, he signaled the infantry to halt and rest, while he scanned the camp for his liege's tent.

To his surprise, no such prominent structure was anywhere in sight. He could not be mistaken: the Duke's pavilion always towered above the camp, impossible to overlook. Could it be that he had left part of the army here and gone elsewhere himself? Asking servants was beneath his dignity, so Gaston directed his horse toward the nearest noble, who staggered unsteadily along the tents.

The red-bearded Baron was drunk. He struggled to focus his eyes on the rider and let out a loud sneeze.

"Ah, what a stench," the drunkard mumbled vaguely.

Count Gaston pursed his lips. Of all people, he had no right to complain.

"Where is the Duke?" Gaston asked, more sharply than he had intended.

"Heh, Your Excellency. Didn't recognize you in armor. Forgive me, but I'm busy!" The Baron attempted a clumsy bow and nearly collapsed to the ground. A pitiful sight, and why wasn't he attended by his servants?

"You will kindly postpone your business," Gaston insisted, his voice edged with threat.

"Post… pone? You have no soul… your goat is gone, just like my little bear." The wave of alcohol on his breath hit Gaston's horse.

The Count's eye twitched. Leaving this drunken wreck alone might have been wiser, but not after those words.

"Do you want a duel, Baron? In such a state?" he asked in a silky tone, sliding the gauntlet from his hand.

"I'll break any dandy in half, drunk or sober!"

"Delightful."

A pulse of magic forced the Baron to his knees. His feeble attempts at resistance were no more than the buzzing of a gnat. The armor resisted far more than the man himself, the magical stream flowed around it, only a fraction seeping through the thick plates. Gaston couldn't help but feel a flicker of respect: the fact that the Baron could even move in such gear while so drunk spoke of long experience.

The Baron roared like a bear, struggling to rise. But it was futile. Gaston was a powerful mage.

"You will answer my question, nonetheless. Where is the Duke?" the Count demanded, suppressing the urge to slam the insolent man face-first into the dirt.

"There… or there… I don't know," the Baron finally surrendered, ceasing his struggles.

Gaston was already gathering strength to pin him into the ground for memory's sake when a dragon's roar echoed from afar. Excellent. Where the dragon was, the Duke could not be far; they were never separated for long. Sliding his gauntlet back on and straightening his wig, Gaston spurred his horse forward.

***

The dragon was displeased. Jagged shards of iron painfully pushed their way out of his flesh, lodged beneath the scales like splinters that scraped with every movement. Thick, magic-suffused blood dripped onto the glade.

"Easy, easy. The healers will mend all your wounds soon," the Duke soothed his beast affectionately.

"Uh, my lord," his chief healer interrupted uncertainly. "The wounds are not life-threatening, but healing a dragon would consume far too much strength. We still have many wounded knights, some missing limbs. If we delay, we'll be forced to regrow them later, and that…"

"I said heal the dragon first. Was my order unclear?"

"No… my lord," the healer sighed and gave the signal. Five weary figures in yellow robes reluctantly began touching the dragon's wounds, bathing them in light.

The dragon blissfully closed his eyes, but a moment later snorted loudly, sparks bursting from his nostrils.

A rider was approaching, dragging behind him a suffocating trail of perfume. Elegant armor richly adorned with ornaments and patterns, lace frills in the most unexpected places, a luxurious wig topped with a horned helm in the shape of a goat's head. Count Gaston never betrayed his style.

Well… at least this time he had put on proper armor.

Coughing against the scent, the Duke forced a false smile.

"I'm glad you've finally arrived, Count," he greeted the dismounting rider.

"Your Grace… are you injured?" Gaston's eyes flicked to the bandaged leg.

"A trifle. The healers will tend to it after the dragon."

"Did something happen?"

The Duke was silent for several seconds.

"Yes. It seems you were right about a peculiar magic," he admitted reluctantly.

"I told you! But your son…"

The Duke's strained smile instantly hardened into a grimace.

"Enough. I will not discuss this."

Silence fell.

Sensing the tension, the dragon rose on its forelegs, scattering the healers, and stretched its head toward Gaston's horse.

The dragon sniffed the terrified horse thoroughly, then turned away in disappointment. It reeked so strongly of perfume that, in his eyes, it had become utterly inedible.

"Ahem. I have an assignment for you, Count," the Duke continued as if nothing had happened. "Take half the troops and move through the forest toward the Shorts' castle."

"But… there could be an ambush in the woods, the troops stretched out in a column…"

"Then don't march in a column, you idiot. Deploy a wide front and cut straight through the forest," the Duke snapped.

"It will be… done, my lord!" Gaston chirped, startled by the sudden change in tone.

"And leave the priests behind. You won't need them."

"But how… without cover?"

"They are more important here. Mine… have met with misfortune," the Duke said vaguely. "Well, what are you waiting for? Move! I want you in place by evening!"

"I will do everything in my power."

"And one more thing."

"?"

"Take off that damned wig."

With a deep bow, the Count rode off. On his bald head the helmet wobbled, now far too large, but the Duke didn't even smile.

He cast his gaze into the distance, where balloons floated near the clouds. Without a doubt, they would notice that he had split the army and be forced to do the same. If he executed his plan correctly, they would surely break through.

"Prepare the troops. We attack at sunset," the Duke ordered. For the enemy could not possibly have built such fortifications inside the forest… Could they?

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◆ Meanwhile, in the Goblin Forest ◆

"I signed up to guard lumberjacks from goblins, not for… all this," Hans grumbled as his men unloaded barrels of kerosene from the cart.

"On the bright side, you'll become a hero. What mercenary band can boast of stopping an entire army?" Til encouraged him, checking the map.

"Heh, I don't want to be a hero, I want to live. And I wouldn't have lived this long if I didn't know when something wasn't worth touching. They say even Red Riding Hood vanished somewhere in this forest… That's what ties with Dukes lead to."

"Nevertheless, you're helping us," Til noted, unwilling to enlighten the mercenary about the fate of that gluttonous bandit girl. Besides… he shook his head, chasing away the thought. No, that fool definitely couldn't have drowned! She'd surely show up soon, complaining she had missed everything.

"Yeah, I'm helping, what else can I do? A contract is a contract." The mercenary shrugged. "But it's a shaky plan. This forest has survived more than one fire. Look at those thick trunks, you can't wrap your arms around them. A ground fire won't harm it, only a crown fire would work."

"I'm listening carefully," Til glanced up from the map.

"What's there to listen to? You've got to set the crowns alight. After that, the undergrowth will burn on its own. Fire's like that, once it starts, even a circle of mages can barely stop it. Especially if fire mages lend a hand."

From afar, a trill echoed. Just an ordinary birdsong, but the mercenary's face darkened at once.

"Time to run, they're close already. They're not only moving along the roads, but through the thickets too."

Til quickly compared the map again. The plan was for the fire to engulf the enemy from all sides so as few as possible survived. But they'd have to start now, leaving the work to the wind. Fortunately, the wind was on their side.

"Break open the barrels and set them alight. Send word to Stern—his guild should begin."

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◆ Goblin Forest, Count Gaston's POV. ◆

The smell of burning had haunted him since morning, like a bad omen. He had already used up several bottles of perfume, but still could not rid himself of it. Sharp and acrid, it tormented his refined senses. Worst of all, the stench only grew stronger. Gaston couldn't understand what was happening. Could he have contracted some rare disease? But mages don't get sick, that was for peasants. The Count lifted his helmet and spare wig to scratch his bald head.

Could it be…
Poison?

He stopped his horse and summoned his squire. The boy replied with a tone drilled into him by habit:

"No, my lord, I still smell nothing."

"Give me the antidote," Gaston interrupted grimly.

The squire's eyes went wide, and he dug frantically through his satchel.

A universal antidote, if it didn't help, at least wouldn't harm. And later, he could reach the alchemists and discover what had befallen him. For now…

The Count uncorked his last bottle of perfume and poured it liberally over his long wig. The stench receded for a moment, granting relief.

More and more armored riders passed him by, throwing scornful glances. Some even chuckled at the sight of the false, curled locks cascading over his shoulders. Oh yes, no one was pleased that formal command had fallen to him.

Shouts rose from the front, the vanguard seemed to have run into goblins again. The Duke's foolish order to force a path through the thickets had led to endless skirmishes; not a hundred meters could be taken without stumbling onto the green pests. Fortunately, Gaston had no intention of making his horses break their legs. All the knights, himself included, moved along the road, leaving the thickets to the peasant recruits. Useless oafs from the villages, who somehow kept managing to die even to goblins!

The sounds of battle grew louder. Apparently, they had encountered a large band of green-skins. Gaston rolled his eyes. The Duke's conscripted infantry was worthless. Nothing like his vanished Legion…

The squire fumbled far too long, until suddenly his hands froze.

"My lord," he said abruptly. "I smell burning."

Through the clash of steel came the sound of crackling. Out of the bushes, right under the horse's hooves, burst a goblin. His twisted face radiated panic, his eyes spun madly, and smoke poured from his body. The horse wasted no time, one precise strike of its hoof sent the crazed goblin straight to the afterlife.

But Gaston had no thought of praising his thoroughbred Detrian steed. In an instant he realized the crackling hadn't come from the bushes at all.

Fire danced across the treetops, driven by a sudden wind that whipped it directly toward them. The gale howled mockingly, goading the flames and making them roar like a rabid beast. The fire surged in a solid wall, devouring everything in its path. White smoke crawled across the ground, and showers of sparks cascaded down.

Knights who had ridden ahead just moments before now came hurtling back past him. Their armor smoked, and their horses' tails were glowing embers.

Gaston spurred his horse. A trap!

The thoroughbred carried the Count back with the speed of the wind. But the fire followed close behind. On both sides walls of flame rose, and ahead…

An infantry unit had rushed onto the road, hoping they might escape along it. The Count spurred harder, for him they were nothing but an obstacle.

The massive chest of the horse plowed its way through human bodies, its hooves smashing bones and skulls. The harness was sprayed with blood. Nothing personal. They had no chance of escaping the fire anyway. The wind blew like a furnace against his back, his armor grew hotter and hotter. His wig, drenched in spirits, burst into flames. With a panic-stricken motion, the Count tore it off and hurled it aside.

Gaston didn't look back. He knew perfectly well only a fire mage could survive in this inferno.

Ahead were supply wagons, the last obstacle. If he could just…

From the treetops, a barrel fell. An ordinary wooden barrel. Gaston might have noticed it if he'd looked up, but he was so fixated on his goal that the cargo crashing down before his horse came as a complete surprise.

Planks splintered, an iron hoop flew off to the side. A torrent of liquid drenched both horse and rider, flooding the wagon train. The horse slipped on the road and went down, crushing its rider. Bang!

For a moment the smell of lamp oil overpowered the stench of burning that had tormented him all day. The Count tried to wriggle free, trapped between his horse and a wagon. He pressed against the cart, trying to shove the beast off. But impossible! A Detrian steed was no mere pony. Reflections of fire flickered in the puddle and in the Count's eyes.

A spark fell. The liquid ignited instantly. Hungry flames engulfed his body, licking his skin…

The smell. The smell of burning… He recognized it.

The stench he had felt all day…

It had been his own smell.

Ha…

He hadn't even known he had the makings of a prophet. Perhaps, if he hadn't used perfume…

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◆ Military Camp of the First Duke, First Duke's POV. ◆

"My lord, the forest…"

"I see it myself."

The Duke gazed grimly at the column of smoke rising on the horizon. Well then…

"Line up the recruits. We'll make a probe by battle. A thousand… No, better make it two. That should be enough, and there's no food for them anyway. And summon the riders."

He swung into the saddle and bound himself tightly to the dragon with straps. His injured leg was perfectly fine now, as was his beloved beast. As for the handful of healers who had collapsed from magical exhaustion, trifles of life.

With a sweep of leathery wings, the dragon rose into the air. On the ground, sergeants were already forming up the novices. Ha, naïve fools who had traded pitchforks for spears just a week ago. Their sole purpose was to serve as grease for enemy blades and to soak up hostile magic. Especially now, when the useless priests could do nothing.

The weary troops, after the march, were herded into something like a rough mob. Crude shields and spears, sometimes axes and rusted chainmail, this was all they had to rely on. Some lacked even boots. But if they survived the fight… the Duke was merciful: those who triumphed against death itself would earn the right to be called soldiers.

Floating alongside the dragon were those who had earned that right long ago, by birth.

"As soon as the infantry reaches the middle of the field, we break through and destroy the flying bags! Understood? We need to blind them, and then… then we'll see."

Indeed, to send more men to their deaths than most barons could ever muster, such extravagance could only be afforded by the ruler of the Kingdom's greatest Duchy.

The wind howled in his ears as the dragon climbed effortlessly to a height only the finest griffons could reach. Below, thunder rumbled and grapeshot whistled. The enemy had not waited for the infantry to cross the field. If they had no armor, so much the worse for them.

The volleys mowed down the front ranks, throwing the rest into panic. Sergeants hacked down those who faltered, driving the masses forward into the attack.

And the Duke watched. The smoke rising from the positions, the thunder and death crashing upon his reconnaissance detachment—these were all links of the same chain. Alchemy, demonology—it mattered little. He would crush it all with sheer numbers. The power of the First Duchy was never in always winning battles. Their strength lay in always winning wars of attrition.

The dragon dove down on the canvas sack hanging in the sky. The griffons lagged behind, unable to match the master of the skies. The wind tore at his eyes. The balloon grew larger, and larger still.

Time froze. The dragon understood his intent with a mere tug of the reins. A claw tore through the fragile fabric with ease. A second later, the dragon was already a hundred meters away, the sound of popping bursts chasing after him. Something whistled past, the dragon shuddered slightly.

A sharp turn!

Skimming over the trenches, the dragon doused them in fire. Men flared like torches. Flashes sparked, hills rolled in smoke. Soldiers raised their weapons, but at such speed hitting the dragon was impossible. Not a single arrow…

But leathery wings bled, riddled with dozens of holes—though he had not seen a single projectile. Had not seen, yet…

Behind him a griffon fell. Fields ran red with blood. Of the two thousand who charged, only a few hundred reached the hills. And then he saw the monster that had done it. A steel maw, iron legs. Its long snout tracked him, straining to keep pace with the lord of the skies.

For an instant the Duke thought he might charge and incinerate it. Dragon fire would melt the iron like wax. Its crew would turn to ash. Never mind that the wings struggled to hold him aloft, never mind the risk. It was a warrior's path: to accept the challenge even without guarantee of success, even if it meant testing his limits to the breaking point.

From the beast's maw burst a pillar of fire. This time the Duke saw the projectile, round and hissing—it flew hundreds of times faster than any stone launched from a ballista.

But still he saw it, and that meant he could stop it.

His Source throbbed with pain. It had been too long since he had used it at full power. A pulse!

The shell slowed, but stopping it was harder than he thought… Yet he must. Otherwise, he was unworthy of being called an Archmage.

Blood ran down his lips, clear sign of overstrain. The iron shot froze in the air, bent to his will. Ha! Now he only had to send it back…

A blinding flash. A ringing in his ears.

He came to after a few seconds. The ground rushed closer, his dragon in a dive, stunned as he was. Both of them riddled with holes, warm blood gushing down his arm. He hauled on the reins, kicked hard. At the last moment, the dragon pulled out of the dive, the grass bowing beneath the gale. Torn wings strained, the dragon listing badly. No… he would not try to challenge the iron monster. That was the warrior's role... But — he was a general. Leaving a bloody rain behind, the dragon glided slowly toward camp. Explosions blossomed in the air. Artificial black clouds burst into being all around.

Griffons caught up, circling, unsure how to help.

"Protect me…" the Duke commanded. "We are retreating."