Vol 6, Chapter 7

There were still a few kilometers left to Renvel when camps and fires began to appear along the roadside. With every hundred meters they grew more frequent, until the entire space along the road was crowded with tents and pavilions. Shady-looking figures sat by the fires, cooking stew or checking their gear, all of them stopped what they were doing to follow our caravan with hungry eyes.

Bows, swords, mail, even plate armor: those gathered along the roads were clearly not peaceful peasants holding a mass picnic.

The guards we had hired in the Capital gripped their swords nervously. Two dozen mounted men-at-arms in armor, that was all the escort willing to take our caravan north. Not because we hadn't wanted more, but because most of the mercenaries had vanished as if into thin air, and those remaining demanded such prices that honest grain traders could never have afforded them.

At least, that was Tamilla's reasoning for not overpaying. I agreed, fearing that if we paid out several thousand gold coins, the people in the Capital might suspect that we were carrying nothing but edible gold.

Still, I had hoped to recruit more men in the nearby towns, but judging by the hungry stares the mercenaries cast at our grain, one thing was clear: it would have been better if we had overpaid back in the Capital…

Shouts rang out ahead, and the caravan halted.

I rose from the table and looked out the window of the wagon. No, the bandit-looking figures were still only watching the caravan, not rushing to attack.

I went to the door, threw it open, and came face to face with Tamilla.

"There's a band of mercenaries standing in the middle of the road. They want to speak with the caravan's leader."

"If they want to talk, then let their leader come here himself," I snorted, and returned to my table. I could work a few more minutes; sketching was a hundred times easier when the wagon wasn't moving.

Outside came the sound of orders. The drivers put aside the harness and picked up crossbows.

The door creaked open, and a guest stepped into the wagon. Without lifting my eyes from the sketches of rotary lines, I asked with deceptive friendliness:

"You want gold for the right to pass, don't you?"

"No… milord," came a weary sigh in reply.

Damn, I had already braced myself to pay in steel.

I looked up from the papers. A weathered mercenary, past his youth, in an equally battered cuirass, scarred not just by life but by its very real representatives, judging by the many claw and bite marks. His mail had been mended dozens of times. He had no sword at his belt, no scabbard either, only a long hunting knife.

"Then what is it?" I asked, finishing my inspection.

He twirled his mustache nervously.

"I just wanted to ask the caravan, milord, where it's headed," he said humbly, quickly adding, "If you wish, I'll leave at once."

"Stay."

I set down the quill and tried to shift gears. It was hard to switch from mechanisms to people.

"Why do you need to know where the caravan is going?"

"Well, perhaps our paths might… milord," he said defensively.

That was it. Now it was clear. Even though the caravan flew our family's banners, that only meant it was under our patronage, nothing more. Whether the mercenary had truly wanted to hire on as caravan guard or to demand a fee, meeting an aristocrat in an ordinary caravan was something he hadn't expected.

And judging by the way he soberly realized something strange was going on, he had decided to retreat.

Too late. I needed men, and if they were walking right into my hands, why refuse?

"The caravan is going through Condor County and the former baronies of Battory and Klemen, to the Black Forest, at the foot of which lies the new barony. To the far North. Is that close enough to your route?"

"Yes, milord," the mercenary lied hopelessly. He understood he wouldn't be released now, not after I'd stated the route.

"Excellent. How many in your band? What fee do you want for escort?"

"Sixteen men. The road's long, and it'll be dangerous. And we're no rabble. Fifty gold."

I rose from the table and passed by him to the door.

"Tami…" I called, but noticed at once she was already standing beside the wagon, examining the mercenary's weapon, something like a spear with a beak forged onto it. It looked most like a boarding hook.

"Well?"

"What do you think, fair price?"

She sighed, dismayed at the upcoming expense, and climbed into the wagon. Inside it immediately felt cramped. Returning to the table, I noticed the mercenary carefully avert his eyes from the papers.

"You can look. They're only sketches for creating the most deadly weapon on the continent."

The mercenary gave a polite chuckle.

But I wasn't joking.

"What does your band usually do?" Tamilla began her interrogation.

"Beast-hunting. We're beast-slayers."

"What class? Do you go after manticores?"

"Manticores are better taken alive, but too dangerous for us. Usually we track them, then sell the lairs to stronger groups. Otherwise, we kill demonic beasts, mutated forest creatures, gnorlahs, shadowspawn… sometimes." At the last word, the mercenary leader twitched.

"What about goblins?" I interjected.

"We can take goblins too, if the pay's good. Otherwise it's not worth it: no profit from them, you just strip the sinews and that's it. Villages can rarely afford to pay, and lords are usually such miser… poor payers, in short."

"I saw the weapon outside—that's yours, I take it?"

"Well, yes. No good going after beasts with a sword, a spear or halberd's much better."

"All right, all right. What's your name?"

"Hans, milord."

"And if I offered your band a contract for a year?"

"The job?" The mercenary brightened. No wonder; it meant they wouldn't simply be gotten rid of once the caravan reached its destination.

"To provide security for foresters in the goblin forest."

"In the forest? You mean after the horde was cleared?" Hans asked in bewilderment.

"Of course. And also to train ranger and scout units."

The mercenary fell into thought.

"A hundred. Per month. And provisions."

A disgruntled sigh rose behind him:

"That's far above market!"

"I agree, but on one condition: sixteen men are far too few. I'll need several more such bands. Do you know any? Same terms."

"I'll ask around…"

"No, send an assistant. I want to know firsthand what demon has Renvell looking like it's under mercenary siege."

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

Half an hour later it was clear something strange was going on.

And not just because the Second Duke was raising an entire mercenary army, justifying it by saying they were supposedly going to cleanse goblins in our County.

It was that he was granting them permission to purchase artifacts, effectively bestowing on mercenary bands that didn't owe him fealty the privileges of his knights: privileges, but not obligations.

"You see, milord, of course it's forbidden, but in our line of work there's no managing without artifacts. Even just fighting a manticore… how do you do that without an enchanted shield? And if you want to take one alive, then without magic nets there's no chance, they tear steel like thread. Anyone who makes his living on beasts needs artifacts. Some are simple enough, some are absolutely indispensable. Some men swear to a lord, others prefer to bribe the inspectors. And here—what generosity! He's doing it very cleverly, strange he hadn't thought of it earlier. Just think how many workshops he has. Now they can sell more, and the prices for us will be lower, since it's no longer under the table. The demand for cores will rise too, which means more procurement. All benefit to us! Praise the One for the Second Duke! I think this should have been done long ago. Look at the holy folk: artifacts are forbidden there, and what's the result? Beasts beyond number, you can't even step outside the village. They save themselves with prayers alone. May the One grant the King wisdom to see what a useful decision the Duke made and lift the ban entirely… life would be better for everyone." Hans rattled on.

Judging by Tamilla's sidelong look, she had a different opinion about the economic efficiency of such a move, but personally I was more interested in another point.

"What if one of those mercenary bands that buy artifacts decides to turn to banditry? The Duke will be responsible before the Crown. Essentially he's just handing out his surety."

"I reckon few would dare. That'd be going directly against the Duke, and after that you'd only have the option to flee to another country."

I thoughtfully spread the papers before me. No, still far too reckless.

"You're saying he doesn't even demand their oath?"

"Yes, just a contract for a year and that's all."

I shook my head. What would stop someone from buying them over? Not just someone… let's be blunt, the Duke's enemies. You could run a whole campaign to discredit the Second, it would be devastating if only one had the will. To expose oneself so foolishly…

"Tell me, Hans, what do you yourself think of it? Why gather so many mercenaries?" I asked, trying to see it from another angle. I already had my own theory, but I wanted counterarguments.

"Well… how to put it, I think it's just for show. This year for the first time in decades the First Duke hasn't held a cleansing. Perhaps the Second just wants to show how it ought to be done, that's why such an investment. Or else…"

"Or else?"

"Well, a tougher mercenary needs to know politics, to recognize when they're being used as cannon fodder…" Hans half boasted, half excused himself in advance. "Anyway, rumors say such a large-scale cleansing isn't for nothing. He was given something in return, something for which the Second Duke poured in so much money."

"And what would that be?" I asked, even a little intrigued.

"That he'll be unopposed when he claims lands once the Third Duchy is divided. His wife's a Klaus, after all!"

I turned to the window. It sounded reasonable: if I were looking from the outside, I'd think we had simply yielded to the Second's demands. Only, I knew for certain the Second Duke had outright abandoned his claims, abruptly and without reason.

The endless rows of tents outside suddenly gave way to labyrinths of stone barracks raised by earth magic. Our wagons twisted desperately, threading through the shantytown that had sprung up in our path. And of course, those barracks too were full of mercenaries.

"Plenty of men, yes… looks like the Duke himself hadn't expected so many takers, ha-ha," Hans commented.

But I watched the wagon weave through the narrow alleys and realized these structures were little worse than city walls. Split the cavalry, block off the narrow streets. Hans was wrong; the Duke had expected many takers and in mere weeks had built them both housing and fortifications.

The Second Duke was raising an army. And I would wager it was not for cleansing our lands of goblins. With the Second Prince dead, the Commonwealth had only one pawn left to advance to the throne. And it looked like they were planning to stake everything on her.

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

In essence, I had four critical tasks to complete before the  war began. The first of them: antibiotics. I hadn't hesitated to snatch some Capital mold, just in case it turned out the most effective.

But besides mold, a basic microscope was needed; otherwise working on antibiotics became ten times harder. I could have built the frame myself, and I was sure I would eventually manage the lenses as well. But there were other tasks, and time was short.

So why not shift the task onto others? Especially since I was now in the magical capital of the Kingdom.

Mages had long since adapted to using water lenses for magnification. All I needed was… a special configuration.

"So you need something that lets you look at bugs?" the mage-artificer asked patiently, his whole demeanor showing he thought he had just heard immense stupidity. As if to say, who would ever need to look at something so small!

"No, not bugs. I want magnification enough to see a fish in a drop of water."

"A fish?"

"You can call it that. Take a drop of water from a puddle, tint it slightly, and keep magnifying until you see the fish."

"Such a tiny fish cannot exist. It's simply impossible, impossible to see what isn't there," the mage tried to explain to me.

Instead of answering, I placed a small chest on the counter. I opened it—inside lay neat rows of coins.

"Five thousand. The device must have a stand to mount it on a table. I need magnification of about a thousandfold."

"Such great magnification…"

I set down another identical chest.

"I need three of them. They must be delivered by the end of the month. You'll get the other half of the sum once you finish the task."

"This…" the mage stammered, then bowed deeply. "We will do our best, sir."

However mad the client's requests, money was always money.

If I was lucky, one problem was solved. But ahead lay a whole mountain of tasks.

The first in importance: reliable percussion caps.

Alas, one unfortunate goblin shaman had shown that firearms could easily be disabled by an ordinary downpour, and the Commonwealth had plenty of water mages. It was only a matter of time before they reached the same conclusion, so I had to be ready.

The only question was whether to waste effort on muzzleloader nipples or do it properly from the start, with a self-contained cartridge.

Still, a heavy rain would hinder muzzle-loading muskets regardless, whether they used flintlocks or caps. Pouring powder down the barrel during a storm, without soaking it, would be nearly impossible.

That meant: cartridges from the start. And again the question, try my luck with paper cartridges, or go straight to metal cases?

Setting up production of paper cartridges would be easier. It would even be possible to shift part of the work onto soldiers, supplying them only with glue, paper, and caps, in addition to bullets and powder. But metal cartridges could be produced truly en masse. Still, launching a cartridge plant in a few days was impossible. Even in a few months it was uncertain.

And then there was the matter of smokeless powder… The production itself was fairly simple: with the nitric acid we already had, all that was needed was plenty of sulfuric acid and cellulose. Producing sulfuric acid, given a supply of sulfur, wasn't so hard. As for cellulose, most likely the goblin forest would have to be cut down for it. It was for protecting those woodcutters that I had spoken to Hans. The boiling would require lots of water, and fortunately there was a river not too far away. Pollution was inevitable, though. If there was time, settling pools could be built for the water. After all, we had to live here.

Of course, cotton could also be used, since it was nearly pure cellulose. But that would be more expensive. Much more expensive, since vast amounts of powder would be needed.

Compared to all this, slightly modifying the breech of muskets to turn them into single-shot rifles would be one of the simplest tasks. But one of the most effective. A bolt-action rifle was all well and good, but complex and time-consuming.

Whereas a simple change in loading for already existing muskets would be a real breakthrough. A solid-metal, unitary cartridge would allow firing in rain or snow, no worries about powder dampening, and most importantly, no need to stand upright while ramming the charge. A long musket was just too cumbersome to load otherwise, but a cartridge could be shoved in while sitting, even lying down.

And yes, of course, this would multiply the rate of fire. So much so that the further advantage of a bolt-action would no longer seem so radical.

When the first repeating rifles appeared, debates raged for a long time over how much faster they really were than the single-shots of the time. Since the idea of clip-loading hadn't come immediately, sometimes the early models were even slower, because after emptying the weapon the soldier had to reload cartridges one by one into a fixed magazine. In fact, many armies practiced an amusing tactic: soldiers were forbidden to fire off the whole magazine, after each shot they had to top up the weapon, and the untouchable reserve in the magazine was only for when the enemy charged, to briefly but sharply increase the density of fire. For most of the battle, repeating rifles were used as single-shots. Of course, we wouldn't waste time with such nonsense: if we introduced them, it would be straight with clips. But…

Better to produce a dozen simpler rifles than a single, more accurate and faster-firing one. At least, for now.

But alas, no matter how much I dreamed, cartridges wouldn't fall from the sky. There was still a long road of work ahead, and to shorten that road I needed at least somewhat qualified helpers in chemistry.

And where else to find them, if not in the Kingdom's largest alchemists' guild?

Whistling, I was heading straight there when a squad of guards barred my path. Admittedly, I hadn't even noticed them at first—Renvell had such an absurd concentration of men in armor that one more squad simply blended into the background.

But when two halberds crossed before me, it became impossible to ignore.

"Viscount Randal von Condor, His Grace, the Second Duke Thorn von Steiger, invites you to an audience… And he will not accept refusal."