Vol 6, Chapter 15

◆ Border of Marquis Short's Lands, Major Kurt's POV. ◆


A hoof slammed into the wet earth, slid, and trembled unsteadily before skidding downward. The chimera swayed, digging in with its second clawed paw. Muscles strained, searching for a foothold. Its bald, bumpy back arched as the grotesque beast hauled itself up the hill, dragging the artillery piece behind it.

At the positions, work was in full swing. Carpenters hammered away, knocking together formwork. Laborers dug around the hill, shaping trenches and dugouts. Nearby, reinforcement rods were being unloaded, piles of rubble stones dragged together. Slightly further back, a steam engine hissed and puffed, all the force of its steel cylinders driving a massive mixing drum. Around it bustled men with troughs in hand. Sometimes the drum tilted, pouring out gray slurry into the carriers' tubs. Sometimes it tilted back to receive water, sand, or the grayish powder from a neighboring wagon. The only thing that brightened Kurt's eyes in that miserable morning drizzle were the field kitchens—much needed on such a damp day.

"So what, the gun's just going to sit out in the rain?" he asked the handlers, who had already unhitched the chimera and were coaxing it to climb down the slope. The clawed brute balked, like a cat stuck up a tree.

"We delivered it to position, didn't we? We could've left it down there—then you'd be the ones dragging it up yourselves."

"You could've waited until we at least leveled the site. How are we supposed to pour the foundation under it now?"

"Wait? We've only got four chimeras for the entire front, and today alone we've got dozens more guns to haul up. You should be glad we came to you first. Otherwise, build some concrete ramps, then maybe horses could drag them… maybe."

Kurt swore. The steep hills were perfect for artillery placements, but the number of chimeras was disheartening. Even now, the light rains were causing problems—what would happen by autumn?

Even back in his mercenary days, he had understood the importance of supply lines. Food, water, and ammunition were things you could not fight without for long. Without water, men grumbled within a day. Without food, they held out a bit longer, but their strength dwindled. Even without arrows or bolts, crossbowmen could take up swords and fight as infantry.

But this army was a special case.
Without powder, it couldn't fight at all. Kurt harbored no illusions that peasants drilled in a few bayonet thrusts could stand against heavy infantry. At best, they'd die heroically.

On the other hand, it was the strongest shooting army he had ever seen. Even corps of Gifted arbalesters fell short, because there were too few of them, while peasants were many. Very many. If the enemy could not break through the storm of flying steel, then all was well. The foe could be shattered while the army suffered almost no losses. But if the enemy did break through…

And that wasn't just hypothetical. Last time, only reserves, the cavalry, and the fact the enemy had no reserves left had prevented serious losses. Even goblins that made it into the ranks had caused trouble.

Kurt wasn't about to let that happen again. Not on his sector.

"Cover that damned gun with a tent, Abyss take you! And build shelters until the casemates are ready. Move it!"

"Yes, major!"

Some soldiers dropped their shovels, grabbed hatchets, and headed for the forest.

Kurt, meanwhile, watched the chimera twitch convulsively as it crept toward the road. There, in the distance, stood a caravan of guns. Too far to tell whether oxen or horses pulled them, but the drivers clearly didn't dare bring them into the mud, afraid the heavy guns would bog down. Maybe, if you hitched more horses to each piece, they could drag them up the hill, but then who would haul them along the roads? The journey was long, the new cannons brought from as far as Reikland. For now, it was manageable, but once the roads washed out, even getting the guns down the road would take chimeras. A lot of chimeras.

And as for where to get them—he had an idea. And Ron didn't seem to mind…

Smirking, Kurt adjusted his raincoat and headed for the commander's quarters.

"Denied," I said flatly.

"But why? We have the equipment and even specialists," Til protested, personally bringing me Kurt's proposal.

"Equipment for humans, and specialists for humans. How many horses will they waste before they figure out how to shape them into something usable? And don't count on me—I have no time to help."

"Help? Ah…"

"Doesn't matter. And we'd also lose an active clinic. No, no, and no. Period."

Til sighed.

"But Kurt is right, our supply line is far too long. Once the mud season begins, we'll be in trouble. The First Duchy is too vast; it won't end with a single offensive. And a counteroffensive will need supplies. Lady Tamilla, confirm this."

She looked up from refilling her quill and nodded.

"If we invest part of the credit gold into developing road infrastructure, everything will be fine. Cobblestone is costly, but it pays off in the future. Trade thrives on good roads… but we need to begin now." Her eyes bored into the back of my head.

"No. Or rather yes, but no. No cobblestones, damn them! I'll handle it all, but… Abyss, do I really have to put everything else on hold for this again?" I rolled my eyes heavenward, but only the ceiling of the Short family castle looked back.

"Fine. If you take this under your personal control, I'll rest easy," Til concluded.

"Tell me, we are evacuating everyone who ended up behind the front line, aren't we?"

"They're not particularly eager, to be honest, but we can force them…" The general hesitated.

"No, no forcing. Just explain what awaits them when they're caught between us and the hungry army of the First, and then offer housing and work. We'll need to raise an embankment from Reikland all the way here. Let's say ten coins a month for pay."

"Two," Tamilla frowned. "Even that will seem attractive to peasants. Most of them only see copper after selling surplus harvest."

"Ten. Don't forget that when they relocate, they lose their land, which means they'll be left without food. That has to be compensated. Otherwise, the best we'll get is a small influx of young men. Not bad, of course, but not enough."

"Two. Paying settlers extra wages will only accelerate the rise in grain prices, which is inevitable already due to the ruined sowing across most of the county. Yes, they'd be able not only to feed their families but to stock something away, but the locals would suffer. Do I need to spell out what happens then?"

Defeated, I raised my hands.

"Fine, you win. Five."

"Three. And why are we even bargaining? A lord should think about paying his subjects less, not more." She huffed in annoyance.

"That money comes back to us anyway. Four."

"You do realize every extra silver turns into hundreds of gold later?"

"Well, not exactly hundreds… more like dozens," I corrected.

"You'd never make a treasurer."

"That's why I've got you," I shrugged.

She sighed and turned to Til.

"Anything else?"

"It would be good to start thinking about winter uniforms already. The army's grown significantly, and if we don't start now…"

"Alright, we'll deal with it. Next!"

Til bowed and stepped out, giving way to the next visitor. Hundredth? Five hundredth? I'd lost count somewhere past the thirtieth.

"Sir Nicholas, an Adept?" Tamilla clarified for the newcomer.

"That's correct." The relatively young knight bowed.

"You've expressed the desire to enter service, so you'll be asked a series of questions. I advise honesty. Any lie will be taken against you. First question: do you harbor any desire for revenge over the death of the Marquis or any of his men?"

"No."

"Good." Tamilla made a note. "Next question…"

I studied the knight more closely—his face seemed vaguely familiar. I thought I'd seen him at the ball. But I couldn't be sure.

With a wave of my hand, I cut Tamilla off.

"You were at the estate when the explosion went off?"

"My lord, we must follow protocol," Tamilla reminded me, shaking the questionnaire we had spent hours drafting together.

"I was there, but I had stepped out... After your words…" the knight answered.

I nodded. Yes, I wasn't mistaken.

"No need for protocol, just a few questions from me. First: what do you want to do? As a literate man, you have options. You could teach peasants as a teacher, or you could join the special construction-engineering units, where your ability to lift and bend iron would be useful. Both pay well."

"I'd like to serve in the army."

I twirled the quill thoughtfully. Hm. They all wanted that…

"You see, I prefer not to recruit former knights into the ranks. In your case, I'll make an exception, but under strict conditions."

"I'm ready."

"No privileges, no indulgences. Rank of a common soldier, pay of a common soldier, duties and rights of a common soldier. And I don't promise career advancement."

"I agree," he answered without hesitation.

"Keep in mind, a teacher makes ten times more."

"I have enough money after you bought out my land. I want to serve."

"Wait, Sir Nicholas, a question from me," the merchant woman cut in. "Do you plan to steal military secrets and sell them to anyone?"

"Tami!"

"What? I had to ask! Isn't it suspicious? A man turns down money—clearly, he's hiding a motive!"

"No, I don't," the knight answered firmly.

For a few seconds she seemed to sniff at his answer, then leaned back in her chair. I supposed that meant approval.

I pressed my hand to the metal plate, and his features carved themselves into it.

"His nose is smaller than it should be," the demon whispered.

"Quiet!" I whispered back, handing the plate to the knight. "Consider yourself on probation."

"Thank you, my lord."

I would've liked to chat with him more, but there was no time. For the second day straight, Tamilla and I had done nothing but sort through people we'd inherited from the Marquis.

"Next!"

The dandy Casanova who walked in after the knight was far more familiar to me.

"Stern? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Actually, he's not on the list," Tamilla noted, checking the sheet.

"Uh, yes, I'm not. I asked the girl downstairs to let me through. But that doesn't matter—I've been bombarding the administration with letters for weeks, asking for a meeting, and they kept refusing me."

I glanced at Tamilla, but she only shrugged.

"You asked not to be bothered with trifles."

"Trifles? I've been writing for two weeks that the specialists from the Commonwealth are doing nothing, only pretending to work. For the past month, they haven't advanced at all in building the ritual hall. But now it's even worse—they're dismantling what they already built! And it's all under O'Conol's supervision. It was his order, I'm sure of it." Stern snorted, not hiding his dislike for the Archmage.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose thoughtfully. Unlikely to be his own initiative. The order must've come from the Academy, or perhaps even directly from the Magister.

"I see… Not surprising. Foolish to expect the Commonwealth to dutifully keep building us a shield over the city. Who knows what worse ideas might strike them. Tami, finish up here. You don't even have to check all the servants—only those who handle food. And keep an eye on Short so he doesn't pull anything while I'm gone!"

She nodded wearily.

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◆ Bunker in the city of Eagle's Cliff, Archmage Wind O'Conol's POV. ◆

Senior Archmage of Air, Wind O'Conol, leisurely lit a rare contraption he had bartered from a tribe of djinn in exchange for thunder-crystals. A tiny flame flared, then died into glowing embers. The glass tube filled with aromatic, sweet-sour smoke. Dried cactus flowers mixed with shredded oblivion weed—the perfect blend to relax and distract from the ominous thoughts hovering in the air.

And there was much to distract from. Payment for the commission, as it turned out, would not be coming. The client was either already dead or about to die. And that wasn't all: returning to the Commonwealth meant they'd certainly rope him into some venture he had no desire for. He was perfectly content traveling with his caravan, occasionally stopping at the faculty to give a lecture or two and bask in the admiration of adoring students.

A fine life for someone who had reached the limits of wind magic.

The door to the underground chamber opened, spilling the precious smoke outside. What waste—it was worth at least a couple of gold coins! The displeased Archmage rose from his silk cushion and came face to face with the local young lord.

"To what do I owe your visit? I thought you were with Marquis Laslo."

"Had to return. To check on you. What's that?" Condor pointed at the glass device filled with smoke.

"This… is a very important tool. It helps better understand the synergy of magical currents and sharpens the mind."

"And does it happen to expand consciousness, too?"

There was mockery in his tone.

"Of course, how could it not?" Wind replied with a false smile.

"I see. And what's your student doing over there?"

The Archmage turned his gaze upward, where a pupil was scraping away the golden conduits they'd previously laid into the ceiling.

"Just routine adjustments, nothing to worry about."

"Routine adjustments, you say?"

"Exactly! You see, calculating a hall for such a massive core is a complex and responsible task, in which mistakes are, unfortunately, inevitable. We concluded the earlier configuration was incorrect, so we're reworking it. Don't worry, the work will be finished by the deadline agreed with the king." O'Conol rattled on enthusiastically.

"A very plausible explanation. Pity it's a lie." Condor snorted.

"Excuse me?" The Archmage feigned confusion.

"Let's not. I don't have time to waste on you. I know you don't intend to finish this project…"

"That is a blatant lie, whoever told you—"

"Don't. Interrupt. Me." The lord's hiss carried a menace that made even the sweet haze lose its comfort. "Here's the deal. I propose we settle this properly. You want money? You'll get money. I'll personally pay for the commission if I see you're committed to the work."

"Who do you think you are? A king? This work costs not tens, but hundreds of thousands in gold!"

"I know. And I'm prepared to pay. Consider it a gesture of goodwill on my part. Well?" The lord extended his hand, but the Archmage waved it off.

"Nonsense. We already have a commission, and we are fulfilling it faithfully."

The hand dropped.

"A shame. Then we'll settle this another way." The lord turned and left the ritual hall.

Silence returned, broken only by the scraping of the student's spatula against stone.

"Master, we won't have trouble, will we?" one of the female students asked uncertainly.

"Trouble? What trouble could come from some viscount? If need be, we'll wipe his little city off the map. Now, why are you standing idle? Back to work! We still need to dismantle the corner conduits—crystals of this purity aren't found on the roadside." The Archmage ordered and eagerly drew in another breath of the sweet smoke from his glass tube.

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◆ The Pit near Eagle's Cliffs, High Inquisitor Morel's POV. ◆

"Brother Morel, your verdict?" the priest humbly asked the High Inquisitor, who had just climbed out of a deep pit in the ground. Despite his heavy, blood-red armor, the Inquisitor scaled the slope with inhuman agility.

"Never have I seen anything like it. Below, there's no trace of magic, no trace of blessings, no demonic corruption. There is nothing there, as if ordinary earth itself chose to erupt like a volcano, gaining its own will. A furious power."

"Then we discard the version about a righteous man who managed to draw the gaze of the One? Declare it heresy?"

"I am not ready to call it heresy. The only thing this place revealed to us… is how little we truly know."

"Eyewitnesses speak of blood falling from the sky, a bright flash, and a thunderous roar that left their ears bleeding. That is a clear parallel with the Seventh Psalm."

"Can eyewitnesses be trusted? Human eyes are blind; they see what they wish to see," the High Inquisitor smirked.

"Our agents questioned hundreds of witnesses, and all report the same thing." The priest bowed humbly.

The High Inquisitor thoughtfully lifted a massive hammer from the ground and leaned on it. His authority was vast, but even he did not know how to proceed. To proclaim what had happened a miracle could have been useful in spreading the faith in this region, but he did not think solely in terms of gain.

"We must speak with the lord," the Inquisitor concluded.

"The holy archives state that the local ruler was once accused of violence against innocents, of kidnapping the weak, of demonology, of corrupting human nature—what they call chimerology.... and of possession. Yet all charges were lifted by the Reverend after examination at the altar."

"Too many sins to dismiss them all. Who initiated the case?"

"An Inquisitor, but he renounced his office and disappeared. His faith wavered; he cannot be considered reliable."

"There is no smoke without fire. We cannot declare this a miracle. Miracles cannot appear around such a great sinner…" The High Inquisitor suddenly tensed, seizing his hammer in an instant. Turning, he realized why his sense of danger had flared.

The very sinner in question had arrived in person.

"Gentlemen."

"We are not gentlemen, we are servants. Servants of God," the priest corrected the lord.

"Of course, forgive me. I am pleased to welcome you to my lands. Do you require anything?"

"No," the Inquisitor stepped forward. "My name is Morel. By the authority granted me by the Holy See, I declare: you are forbidden to proclaim what happened here as a Miracle."

"No problem. I have already fought against that notion myself. Alas, delusions tend to take root."

"Our agents will assist you. Rest assured."

"I will not tolerate killings on my territory." The Lord's tone turned cold, forcing the priest to press his palms together and clarify:

"Of course not, we protect the blood of the common folk and shed it only for reason. Fear not, our agents are skilled in words and will persuade people without violence. We have no wish to turn them against us, you understand."

"But if it comes to it—we will burn out any heresy," the Inquisitor added grimly.

"Speaking of heresy," the Lord smiled pleasantly. "It so happens that a pretender has appeared on my lands. A self-taught sorcerer. He claims to be a member of the Commonwealth, but I have great doubts… We understand each other, don't we?"

The churchmen exchanged glances.

"Perhaps we could speak with him, but only if you make a public statement," the Inquisitor said slowly.

"Of course. I am ready to openly repeat my words and level the accusation," the Lord grinned darkly.

"Wait," the priest interjected. "Perhaps you wish to settle scores with him using the Church, but I must warn you: the Commonwealth will not leave this unanswered. Not only the Commonwealth—the wise King Robert, may the One prolong his years—understands the importance of neutrality, and will likely want to punish you even before the Lodge does. He despises those who, exploiting our strife with the Commonwealth, try to upset the delicate balance of power."

"Thank you for the warning. But I am handing this fraud, this self-taught charlatan, entirely into your hands. I have no intention of employing him. Everything in accordance with the treaty between the Kingdom and the Theocracy. Only one question remains: will you take him?"

"We will," the High Inquisitor pronounced firmly, though inwardly he grimaced.

Now he was certain—at least some of the accusations against this lord… were absolutely true.