Vol 5, Chapter 10

"What happened to your Source?"

The sudden question made me pause for a moment. Meanwhile, the old man squinted, his gaze boring into my chest, and I was certain that the doublet wouldn't protect me from the perverted old man.

"It looks gnawed, only the core remains. Of course, it's hard to say exactly what happened, but you're very lucky. You're literally in the very heart of all magical science in our world. We'd be happy to offer you our services. Completely free of charge. Rest assured, whatever the nature of your problem — there hasn't been a single case where my graduate students have failed."

"I'm perfectly fine," I cut him off, then reminded him, "In our lands, it's considered rude to scan others."

"Perhaps because, in the vast majority of cases, the Kingdom's general magical knowledge is so deplorable that no one knows techniques to protect against scanning? You should take a few lessons while you're here."

The Count coughed quietly, inserting himself into the conversation.

"In the Commonwealth, it's really not considered an insult, Viscount. The common view is that if someone let themselves be scanned, it's their own fault."

"I understand the idea about following local ways, but shouldn't officials respect the customs of delegates?"

"Viscount!" the Count hissed irritably.

"No, it's alright," the rector waved it off. "My apologies, but I can't help but see it. It's the burden of a magister."

I gave the mage a careful look. Though his beard was starting to fade and his skin was wrinkled, he looked neither overly old nor dangerous. No flows of power, no imposing aura of might. On the contrary, he seemed more good-natured than threatening. Ha, even Meister Orin looked more the part of one of the strongest mages in this world!

"I heard the Magister sits on the High Council," I said softly, my tone tinged with doubt.

"Correct, we call it the Lodge. You could say it's my... side job," the rector chuckled into his beard.

"Sitting in the country's supreme governing body is a side job?"

The old man paused slightly, then smiled kindly.

"Where do you think more power is concentrated? In halls where the powerful endlessly argue and play diplomatic games, forming and breaking alliances? Or where youth grow and master the mysteries of magical art? Every gifted mage in the country studies at the Academy, regardless of origin. Only power matters — even the son of a Lodge member can study next to a former peasant. Though, sadly, that's rare. Without inheriting the right genetic lines, the chance of such a talent appearing is in the millionths of a percent... Hm. But I digress. Let's go, no need to waste time."

He gestured and slowly walked toward the Academy, forcing us to follow. Taking the moment, the Count quickly whispered:

"Don't provoke him. Magister Igni al Kegan has been the Academy's rector for several centuries."

"Two hundred thirty-four years. Could've been more, but the previous head held onto his seat tightly," the old man said.

Despite his age, his hearing was excellent!

"My apologies, Your Excellency. The Viscount has no idea of the role the Academy plays in the Commonwealth's politics."

I frowned. On the contrary — I understood it perfectly well. Who hadn't read Harry Potter? The Magister was a textbook Dumbledore, not only presiding over the local Wizengamot but also holding all education for talented mages in his hands. And who in their right mind would go against their dear old mentor in adulthood? Especially one so kindly, who surely forgave teenage blunders? And if you did… well, everyone has children, and it's worth remembering who teaches them. Judging by the fact he had descendants, the local Dumbles was at least straight. Still, that didn't stop the Magister from launching into a short lecture as we approached the Academy.

"Ah, your eternal problem — the lack of centralized, systematic education. Tutors and private mentors are fine, but only as a way to deepen existing skills. In every other respect, it's simply dreadful. I'm amazed you haven't forgotten how to cast altogether! When the skill level of the teachers is uneven, the skill level of the students will likewise fail to meet standards. Worse still, such a system leads to the degradation of magical science. When individual masters conduct research, they are in no hurry to share it even with their students, and death can come so suddenly. One accident and unique knowledge is lost forever. Generation after generation, before you know it, you're surrounded by savages who have forgotten even the simplest principles… Not that this applies to you, my lady," the old man added, noticing Asha rolling her eyes. "Though your Ashir education is crippled by rigid clan traditions, I can, grudgingly, call it relatively decent. Several centuries ago, your level was even higher… But let's not dwell on sad things."

"Is it really so bad for knowledge and hereditary techniques to remain in the family best suited to use them?" the mage girl frowned.

"Even in a clan, a person may be born with an aspect alien to their house. Teaching them according to family traditions alone means burying their potential. And even a clan can be destroyed, causing the world to lose unique knowledge. I admit this system is more viable… but it still falls short of ours." Magister Igni stroked his beard proudly.

"And what is yours?"

"We destroyed the monopoly on knowledge. All scientific research and achievements are systematized and available to any student whose talent meets the requirements."

"I'm sure your clans were just thrilled," Asha snorted.

"Oh, they were indeed, little lady…"

At those words, the mage girl stumbled and flushed darkly with anger, but managed to restrain herself.

"…but we came to an agreement. Of course, there are certain nuances with the noble houses, but for most mages the ten-year rule applies. After submitting their materials to the Academy's restricted section, a mage has the exclusive right to use the results of their research for exactly ten years, or until death. After that, they receive a reward for their contribution to science, and the knowledge becomes public."

"And no one tries to keep their inventions secret?" I asked.

"They do. And they face harsh punishments. The development of science is literally a matter of our survival, so no punishment for obstructing it can be too severe. Besides, the Academy is the center of most research. We fund, we train, we send out expeditions. In such conditions, it's hard to hide anything. By the way, we've arrived. I call this the foyer."

Monumental columns of white marble marked the entrance to the Academy. The mages and servants bustling to and fro looked tiny against them.

"Hundreds of rooms, lecture halls, menageries, arenas, nature reserves, dungeons, laboratories, and fenced-off areas for combat training. Altogether — hundreds of square kilometers. The Academy is so vast that we use carriages to move between its sections."

The Magister whistled sharply, and an unusual carriage approached. Instead of a horse, a steel spider was harnessed, its legs clicking in perfect, unnatural synchronicity.

"Don't be alarmed, it's a golem. Living transport produces too much waste."

"I liked the old ones better," the Count shuddered.

"This is an experimental model. The students suggested a multi-legged design would be more stable. Get in—"

A loud pounding of footsteps cut the Magister off mid-sentence. From the direction of the square came a young man in a bluish robe, either faded or half-painted. Probably a senior student or adept.

"Master!" He fell to his knees before the Magister. "A report from the observers at the portal zone."

With uncharacteristic agility for an old man, the Magister bent down over the servant, who whispered something to him. His face darkened.

"Eh, old age is no joy. Son, repeat it louder — I didn't catch a thing."

"The warding runes are disturbed — someone used shadow magic in the portal zone," the messenger said loudly enough for us to hear.

The Magister seemed not to be listening to him; his eyes slid toward the Count. I quickly glanced at Nerd, whose expression was as bored as ever. No reaction.

"Shadow magic, an unpleasant and rare thing. Are you sure?"

"Yes, Master. Blood magic may also have been involved — hard to say."

"The ambassador?"

"Detained. Replaced by Mister…"

"Doesn't matter, he won't last long in that post anyway," the Magister waved a hand. "Send the former ambassador to the interrogation room. I'll come as soon as I inspect the portal."

"But his clan—"

"I'll handle his clan. Get to it."

The student bowed deeply and ran back without even brushing the road dust off his robe.

Meanwhile, the rector turned toward us, still drilling the Count with his gaze, to which the latter raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. The Magister sighed and looked away.

"Urgent business. My apologies, but I won't be able to personally give you a tour."

"Don't worry about it, I'll just head to my quarters then," the Count said with a bow, stepping out of the carriage.

"And you…" the rector turned to us.

"I'd still prefer to see the Academy," I replied. The girl shrugged indifferently, showing she didn't care either way.

"Then wait here, I'll send someone," the Magister said, heading toward the square.

To my surprise, the Count remained near us. Once the Magister was far enough away, he turned to me.

"Condor, a word."

Frowning, I dismounted and gestured for Asha to stay in the carriage.

"Does the name Heinrich von Klaus mean anything to you?"

"Never heard of him," I said with a slight shrug.

"Henry. Klaus."

"Oh, that I remember!" I snapped my fingers.

"Over a minor disagreement, you beat him half to death."

"The disagreement wasn't minor," I noted.

"Doesn't matter now. You're the kind of man who causes trouble, and I don't want anything jeopardizing our mission. Stay out of my way, and I won't stoop to abusing my authority for revenge. Find yourself a mistress, or something else to occupy your time, just don't interfere with my real work."

"A mistress?" I asked, intrigued.

"What did you think most people come here for? The Commonwealth actively encourages contact between mages. They may even allow female students to travel to the Kingdom, but only on one condition: the children return to the Commonwealth and have no rights to inheritance. Many find such terms more than acceptable."

"Breeding mages, got it."

"Do that instead. I trust we understand each other?"

I just smiled and inclined my head. The Count snorted and walked off. It seemed he knew the area well enough not to need a guide.

By the way, our guide, or rather, our female guide — was already hurrying toward us. Quite pretty, I had to admit.

Something told me I'd been right about the 'breeding' comment.

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◆ Lands of Marquis Short, Marquis Laslo’s POV. ◆

Dusk.

For the third day, Baron Gusto's castle had been under siege.

And by whom? A former ally, who had recently promised to help take Eagle's Crag, now turned against him.

Below, beyond the castle walls, a herald waved a white flag once again.

"Surrender and swear fealty to Lord Laslo! All your transgressions will be forgiven!"

"To the Abyss with you! I swore to Marquis Short, and I will not break my oath!"

A sudden gust of wind nearly knocked the baron off his feet. A griffon circled near the wall, a rider on its back.

"Short is dead. If you don't bow your head, you'll join him, Baron. Counting on your walls? They won't save you," Laslo said mockingly.

"You… two-faced bastard! Bring him down, now!" The baron swung his sword, and his knights reached for their bows.

A steel bow was much simpler and, more importantly, cheaper than a bolt-thrower, though slower to fire. In moments, heavy arrows flew toward the griffon. Banking sharply, the beast easily dodged.

"Think I won't storm your walls? Last chance, swear loyalty or you'll regret it."

"You'll lose many soldiers before you take our walls. Begone! I'll swear only to your father."

Laslo's face twisted in a snarl. He pulled a horn from his belt and blew it.

The assault began.

Wave after wave of infantry advanced, met by volleys of arrows — both standard and those fired by the few knights. Such a shaft, more like a small ballista bolt, could pierce a man through. The attackers' numbers dwindled, while Laslo circled above, watching his men die to no apparent effect.

"South gate. Release the Little One," he ordered, spotting the weakest point.

Veteran soldiers, backed by dismounted knights, prepared for the attack. But first, something had to clear the way.

Handlers nervously unchained the massive beast. Their shock-staves, normally used to control magically enhanced animals, had been left in the tents; they wouldn't stop this creature, only enrage it.

Originally meant to bear a rider, the Little One had grown too large and unruly, so it had been given another role.

A living battering ram.

In place of a saddle, a crude iron carapace had been fitted. Even without it, the chimera's thick hide offered good protection. Half the chains were already gone when the Little One began to stomp forward, tearing up the ground. The remaining chains snapped one after another.

With a piercing roar, the chimera charged the gates, trampling allied troops in its path. It didn't understand the concept of friend or foe, and chaining it again after battle was a nightmare.

But the battering ram's effectiveness outweighed the drawbacks.

On the walls, panic rose. The defenders saw the many-ton bulk charging full tilt.

They saw it, but could do nothing. Even the knights' arrows bounced off its armor. They rushed to the cauldron of boiling pitch and tipped it over… but it was too late.

BANG! The crash echoed far and wide, sealing the defenders' fate.

The Little One tore through the gates as if they were straw, not wood reinforced with steel bands. The portcullis followed almost as easily.

Knights and veteran soldiers poured in behind the chimera, completing the rout. The walls fell almost instantly. The remnants of the defenders, led by the baron, retreated into the keep.

"Sir, I think they want to surrender," reported one knight, his armor soaked in blood — none of it his own.

"I gave them a chance. Kill them all, and burn the castle as a warning. We can't spend this much time on every rebel baron. Let them see what awaits them," the marquis ordered with open satisfaction.

Hours later, the entire fortress was ablaze.

Laslo admired the view from above until the smoke forced him to land, where troubling news awaited.

"My lord, the green-skins are becoming an ever greater problem for our supplies. They've killed our horses again and plundered everything the foragers were forced to abandon. Their raids inflict ever more damage; their numbers are growing, and they're becoming increasingly brazen. When is the Duke going to hold the annual hunt?" the baronet responsible for army supplies dared to ask.

"There will be no hunt," Laslo cut him off.

"But then the goblins…"

"Burn the villages north and east of the forest."

"But those are… our villages!"

"I know," he smiled. "Drive the refugees south. Let the goblins scent easy prey and send their hordes toward Condor's lands."

The baronet bowed deeply so his lord would not see his expression. Laslo didn't care. Pulling a flask from his belt, he sipped wine and kept watching the castle burn.

His thoughts were elsewhere.

He knew from experience that a goblin horde could be nasty. A city they could not take, but slaughter all the peasants, condemning not only the city but the whole region to famine? That they could do easily.

"Let's see how you handle this…" he thought, sipping wine to the screams of the defenders burning alive.