Vol 6, Chapter 12

◆ Former Count, Karl Condor's POV. ◆


"Halt, traveler. By order of the Secon—"

The mercenary never finished. He toppled with a slit throat. His comrades didn't have time to react before steel spikes tore through their bodies.

Silence.

The former Count pulled back his hood and summoned the spikes to himself. They weren't meant for battle, but they served well enough. Ignoring the still-twitching corpses, he carefully scanned the bridge for traps.

Nothing. Five mercenaries—that was all? He had expected at least his foe's personal guard, if not knights.

So be it. The Second Duke would pay for his negligence. Stepping past the cooling rabble, Karl walked to the center of the bridge.

The bloodstained spikes clattered into the decorative paving stones. Decorative, because the bridge itself, nearly fifty meters long, was one solid block of stone, fused together by an earth archmage—a single, smooth, unbreakable construction. Polished stone, however, was treacherous under hooves, so a layer of cobblestones had been laid atop it.

Upon these cobbles Karl carefully lowered a large chest he had been hauling, tied to his back. The lid, reinforced with isolite, swung open, revealing the core. Enormous, filling the chest, it was a spider-warrior's core, bought from the Fourth Duke for a fortune.

The bitterest part—it had been his own house that had harvested it. His grandson, that wretch, had squandered their treasures for base gold, as if he didn't grasp that gold was nothing but gold. No heap of precious metal could bring down a bridge. A core, however…

Karl lowered the core into a "cage" of driven spikes. That would keep it from rolling when he shattered it.

The former Count drew his sword and focused. He was never master at reshaping, so it took nearly a full minute for the blade to twist into a 'bec de corbin'. He could have prepared it earlier, but he had expected far heavier guard detail at the bridge, and he was far worse with a 'bec' than a sword.

He could have carried a mundane 'bec' alongside his blade, true—but then he would have been forced to strike from dangerously close range.

The red-tinted 'bec' lay beside the core, and Karl hurried off the bridge.

At its edge, he lifted his hands, squinting to line up his strike at a distance.

A blow!

A thin chime rang over the river, crystalline. The core bounced, but held. It was sturdy. He would need more.

Another strike!

And another!

The chiming gave way to cracking, raw mana rising in a wavering haze. The core didn't explode, but split. Just a little more!

Straining every strength, Condor raised the 'bec' several meters into the air and brought it down.

A flash seared his eyes. He didn't pause to admire it—he threw himself flat, pressing as deep into the ground as he could. His ears rang with the cacophony of rending and thunderous bass. A shockwave swallowed the shore, lifting Karl and tossing him aside. Stone fragments shrieked overhead, trees crashed, and wind tore through the landscape. Minutes passed before it subsided.

Soaked and filthy, the aristocrat staggered up and brushed himself off.

Above the bridge whirled shredded green leaves, crackling lightning darting among them. At its center gaped a hole dozens of meters wide, the rest of the bridge crisscrossed with fractures, ready to collapse at any moment. No army would cross here now.

The raw mana hanging in the air pressed on him, flooding into his Source, filling him with giddy strength.

Karl wrung the water from his beard and smiled. Success!

But his task wasn't done. A few kilometers away, another bridge remained. He had no more cores, but that bridge was smaller, built by men, and its blocks could perhaps be shaken loose and toppled piece by piece. Difficult, yes—but necessary.

He set off at once, trudging along the bank.

The way was long. His boots squelched with water, his body shivered treacherously from the cold, and Karl clenched his teeth in fury. Had he grown so feeble? By a mage's standards, he was hardly old.

And the weather turned, at the worst possible time.

A dense fog rolled over the river, cutting visibility to only a few meters. Gnarled bushes loomed like chimeras, trees took the shape of lurking foes. The chill bit deeper into his flesh. No… something was wrong.

Grass crunched underfoot. He lifted his boot—it was rimed with frost. Could it be?

He ripped out his sword and sprinted for the water, stumbling on hidden branches veiled by fog. His boots slipped; he nearly fell.

Ice.

A gust tore the fog aside for an instant, baring the river, frozen to its bed.

The Second Duke hadn't even bothered to use the bridge.

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

◆ Capital, Voices of the Crowd's POV. ◆

The capital seethed. Workers hadn't yet finished clearing the bodies of men and monsters when, like thunder out of a clear sky, the news struck: the Second Duke had raised an army and was marching on the Capital.

Bribed heralds were shouting themselves hoarse. Some tried to convince the crowds that the Second Duke was a traitor, others that he was attempting to save the King from a conspiracy. They claimed the King was surrounded by turncoats, kept ignorant, deceived at every turn. The heralds never named names, but their hints pointed directly at the Third Prince. They hinted until the icebreaker-like figure of a giant knight cut through the mob and hauled the protesting crier away.

Yet despite the arguments, everyone agreed: things were dire.

Most citizens still hadn't recovered from the monster invasion, wandering in a daze, mourning their dead, ruined shops, and bloodstained homes… and now, open rebellion. And no matter how often the Second Duke emphasized he was not rising against the King, everyone understood it was a rebellion. They understood, but struggled to decide whom to support.

Words about traitors fell on fertile soil. Too many townsfolk had suffered at the hands of aristocrats, and many more were consumed with envy, eager to support anyone who would drag nobles down. They didn't care which nobles, they wanted noble blood.

Others, mostly shop and workshop owners, were horrified. They hadn't even tallied the losses from the monsters, and now war? All-God forbid! Crowds thronged to temples, praying desperately for any kind of deliverance.

The capital split. Marauding gangs used the chaos to plunder shops already ravaged by beasts. Everyone was tense, hungry for news. Rumors spread at impossible speed.

The Second Duke's army had marched out of Renvel…

They had already crossed the river…

The Duke proclaimed he would not harm those who offered no resistance, and called on all to join him.

Patrols did not resist, garrisons laid down their arms. Several griffons that attempted to attack the rebel columns from the air were shot down.

The King's knights, who should have moved to intercept, halted near the capital, waiting to see how it ended… neither joining the Duke, nor standing against him.

"They'll be at the Capital in two hours, one hour, half an hour!"

Citizens scrambled onto the walls, ignoring the shouts of fortress guards. Some fell to their deaths, or met the guards' blades.

In the shops, every scrap of cloth in the Duke's colors was snatched up. Half the city was ready to swear fealty, the other half to fight to the last. But most didn't care, they only awaited the outcome.

Everyone understood one thing: the garrison could not hold. The Duke's mercenaries and mages were not so numerous, but they were here, while the King's armies were scattered across the realm, most stationed at the borders with the Theocracy and the Commonwealth. This was a dagger thrust into the unprotected heart of the Kingdom.

Flags appeared on the horizon. The army had reached the Capital.

And stopped.

For hours the citizens went mad from the suspense. From the towers one could see the Second Duke's encampment; some even swore they saw the Duke himself pacing anxiously. Nonsense, of course, but rumors were so thick it felt as if reality itself was shifting.

Hysteria on the streets became the norm. People begged for the torment of waiting to end, even if in a bloodbath.

"They're leaving!" a watchman's disbelieving cry rang down from the tower.

Leaving? Whispers spread through the streets. No one believed it. It was impossible. Bellowing partisans shook their heads. Madness. A man who raised rebellion couldn't just walk away.

But reality is cruel to those mired in illusions.

The rebel camp outside the walls was broken down, flags lowered. The Second Duke's army withdrew, lifting the siege and marching back to Renvel.

The city gates swung open. Crowds surged outside the walls to see for themselves.

But it was true. Those who had bought up cloth in the Duke's colors burned it in the streets. Those who had openly sided with him trembled in fear. Those who had prayed now brimmed with faith: the All-God had spared the Capital.

The rebellion, scarcely begun, had ended in nothing.

The people breathed in relief…

And then held their breath again.

Word came from the palace.

The King was dead.

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

◆ County of Condor, the same time. ◆

Of course, we had accomplished almost nothing. Even though several days still remained of the two weeks allotted, it was already obvious our plan to leap straight to unitary cartridges in one push had been unrealistic.

The issue wasn't even the engineering problems, those would be solved in time. The real stumbling block was sulfuric acid. Despite its relative simplicity to produce, I had grown far too used to relying on Asha for projects like this. Many of the reactions required a steady, specific temperature. Meister Orin could substitute to a point, but where Asha instantly understood what I meant, with him I had to build communication almost from scratch. Hours were wasted on nothing more than mismatched understandings of "temperature"… and worse, he was orders of magnitude worse at handling truly high heat. For example, when I required four hundred degrees, results fluctuated not by tens, but by hundreds.

Alas, while the girl enjoyed her free cruise, I had to make do. And despite everything, progress was fairly successful.

A functioning system ready for scaling within a week... that was lightning-fast. It had taken magnitudes longer just to stabilize nitric acid production.

The real problem was simply this: even that wasn't fast enough.

Fortunately, our successes didn't end there.

The second problem, relatively resolved, was the matter of primers. Relatively, because instead of the envisioned automated line producing tens of thousands per day, what we had for now was almost entirely manual production, barely a few hundred. Not even a workshop, more like a shed where a dozen workers, with the help of small presses, stamped out explosive copper caps.

Right next door, in what had once been a pharmacy, the Alchemist prepared the compound. That, at least, was simpler than producing sulfuric acid from pyrite. Fulminate of mercury required nothing extraordinary, just nitric acid and mercury. We had nitric acid in abundance, and mercury wasn't hard to obtain either. A nearly forgotten fashion in the Capital for blades with shifting centers of balance had helped, since mercury had been poured into the cores of those swords. In addition, cinnabar was widespread, and the method of extracting mercury from it was even more elementary than making fulminate itself.

Acquiring vast quantities of mercury would have been a problem, but small-scale production had its advantages. It didn't require much mercury. For now. And when it demands it…? Well, the first caravans of cinnabar were already on their way.

Unfortunately, not everything was so bright. For instance, I hadn't gotten around to trains. Nor to designing a proper crusher. And while life without a train was bearable, it wasn't critical—without cellulose production the next step would collapse completely.

And this wasn't the only issue. I'm not even talking about the hordes of petitioners and piles of trivial correspondence dumped on my desk. Not the social projects, or the thousands of minor issues that still needed attention. Not the inquisitors who might arrive any day. Not Mira, who sometimes reminded me about the book and only got a wave of the hand in reply, meaning I didn't have time. Not the fortifications at the Laslo borderlands, not the officer corps of my ever-expanding army, which now needed more leaders than I had candidates for. Not even the fact that when we tried to start cutting back the Goblin Forest, primitive arrows from the surviving greenskins rained down on the lumberjacks.

No, I meant the cursed letter from the King. Or rather, not just from him…

"Well then, gentlemen, I'm glad you all managed to gather despite your duties," I greeted those assembled in the hall.

Tamilla. Dorvan. Til. Mira. Dolan. And Pit, who alone was clearly displeased that I had dragged him away from his still-fruitless tinkering with rotary lines.

Each of them would be needed for what was coming.

I pulled a letter from the desk.

"This arrived three days ago. A message from Erin. My grandfather was arrested and thrown into the dungeons. But don't worry."

I drew another.

"This one, also from her, says Count Condor renounced his title in my favor and was released."

Congratulations rang out, but I cut them short with a wave and pulled out the next letter.

"This… no, we'll skip this one for now." I set it aside and picked up another. Fine paper, golden wax, royal seal.

"A letter from the King. Or rather, an order. It contains an invitation to a ball at Marquis Laslo's, along with a collection of veiled threats should I choose to ignore it."

"What was in the previous one?" Til asked curiously.

I lifted it and shook it. That one hadn't come by raven. A local shopkeeper had delivered it directly to the administration, with strict instructions that it be placed in front of me.

"And in this one, our Hardan friends assure me the ball will be anything but peaceful. Absolutely not. They say we'll almost certainly be killed there. And I trust their intelligence."

Tamilla snorted and crossed her arms. When she found out exactly how I had obtained the funds, she hadn't approved. She was still sulking, though I had been too buried in work to notice right away…

"So we're not going to the ball?" Dorvan asked naively.

"No… We are going. Of course we are. And we'll even bring a gift. Tamilla, do we have a few hundred kilos of silver?"

"Hundreds?" She rolled her eyes.

"Alright, tens then… Silver as plating over cast iron. Do we have enough?"

She sighed and nodded.

Good. I hadn't wanted to use gold.

"Pit, I'm afraid I need you to work on what you dislike most. I need a clock. A very special one."

"And for this I… Fine, to the Abyss with it. You'll have your clock." He waved his hand.

"Dolan, I'll need to strip all guards from the balloons for now. Their pneumatic and revolver rifles will be needed."

He nodded. "Alright, I'll find proper marksmen in the army to replace them."

"And I'll need you too. But not with a musket…"

I hauled a massive weapon up from the floor. Six-shot drum, spring-loaded stock, bipod. Essentially an oversized version of the air corps' revolver rifles.

"They're heavier every time," he grumbled.

What could I do? The drum alone weighed nearly five kilos, the cartridges as long as several fingers each. Handcrafted, of course—since for now, factories were still a dream.

"You can give it to me, I wouldn't mind one in my collection... Got another?" Til asked hopefully.

"No, but I do have something else for you. A special gift."

A case landed on the table. Inside—almost exact copies of my revolvers, the only difference being a ramrod for knocking out a stuck primer. Easier for me to clear with magic.

"Wow… Incredible!"

"Thank you for your service."

Now that primer production was underway, I could more freely arm my people. Starting to approach the times of the Wild West... at least when it comes to cap-and-ball revolvers. And besides, now I was sure their weapons wouldn't turn into useless pumpkins in my absence.

"I'll need men from you as well. Five or six, the sort that could pass for knights. Men who still remember how to swing a blade."

"I have some in mind," he said slowly, cocking the revolver and watching the drum spin.

"Dorvan. Almost the same, but focus on those who can hold a line. Can you find them?"

"I'll look…"

"Good. Then we'll have our muscle. But don't go beyond the numbers, I only need the best—five each. We mustn't look threatening… or as if we're marching to war. Understood?"

As approving murmurs rose, I turned to the women.

"Now, the next question… Which of you will go with me to the ball?"

"Me!" they both answered at once.

"If there's fighting, at least I won't be as useless as she is," Mira snorted.

"The ball requires a certain dress code. You won't be able to hide your tail. And how many balls have you attended? I, on the other hand, have plenty of experience. Besides, fighting won't be our task there anyway," Tamilla countered reasonably.

I nodded. In truth, Erin would have been the perfect choice. She had both the experience and the strength… but unfortunately, she was already in the Capital.

"Fine, both of you then," I marked it down in my imaginary notebook.

The girls pouted.

I turned to the window. Rain fell in a thin, irritating drizzle—the echoes of a storm raging somewhere far off.

Yes… I was sure, somewhere out there, a true tempest brewed.

In any case, I would thank Marquis Laslo properly, and present him with a gift. A gift that would put him in the seventh heaven.

Of course, not with joy.