Vol 5, Chapter 3

◆ Ancestral castle of House Short, Laslo and Kazimir's POV. ◆


"Have some cheese, don't be shy," Marquis Laslo said kindly, extending a silver plate to the trembling Kazimir.

"Thank you, but I'm not hungry," Kazimir tried to refuse.

"I insist. It's the finest cheese from your father's cellars. Who knows if you'll ever have the chance to taste it again… so don't test my patience."

Kazimir obediently accepted the plate and began chewing, unable to taste a thing. Damn the day he trusted that pretty girl who got him out of prison! At first, it had seemed like a stroke of luck—across fields, weeds, and forest paths, they moved farther and farther from Eagle's Bluff. But then, a knight on a griffin had descended from the sky, and things quickly took a turn for the worse.

They tied him up and brought him under guard to some pathetic village, where he'd been locked up until today. He wasn't even allowed to send a message to his father for ransom, which already said plenty. His sense of doom peaked early this morning when they dragged him out of bed and tied him to the griffin. From the bird's-eye view, he saw squads flying the First Duke's banners purging the village—slaughtering all the residents and burning down their homes.

They killed everyone who could have spoken of him. A pretty clear hint of what awaited him, wasn't it?

He'd allowed himself a brief glimmer of hope—when he realized they weren't taking him just anywhere, but to the ancestral Short estate. While the Marquis preferred his estate near Eagle's Bluff, the ancestral fortress remained the center of his domain and was located not far from the First Duke's personal lands.

That hope died quickly, though, when Kazimir realized it wasn't his father in charge of the castle.

"Wine?" Laslo offered, nudging a goblet toward his "guest."

"Thank you." Kazimir didn't dare refuse. He could only hope it wasn't poisoned…

An ominous silence settled over the dining hall. Laslo folded his hands and watched intently as the boy's throat bobbed, trying to force the wine down his fear-locked throat. Perhaps it was time to talk.

"So… I imagine you've figured out that your father, to our great misfortune, has departed this world—cruelly murdered…"

"By the Condors?" Kazimir asked hopefully, but Laslo gave him no chance.

"By me."

Kazimir managed a painfully forced smile.

"Very funny, my lord. Ha. Ha."

"The real joke was your father's abilities. A laughingstock among marquises. I've known barons who were stronger than him." Laslo's stare drilled into him, making Kazimir wilt.

"I see… Now you'll kill me too?"

"Eventually, but not yet. You see, your father took precautions. The castle's dome won't rise unless it senses fresh blood of your bloodline. I've already tried with distant relatives and bastards—it doesn't work. So you'll be staying in the castle until the mages reconfigure the defenses. Maybe it'll take a month, maybe a year. You'll live in comfort until then. That's my mercy."

"I can be useful, I can swear fealty…"

Laslo laughed.

"No, sorry. I can't allow a rightful heir to these lands to exist."

"Why… why are you doing this? You and my father were allies!" Kazimir shouted, furious and desperate.

Laslo ran a finger thoughtfully along the rim of his goblet. Was it even worth explaining his plans to a dead man? Then again, who else can you tell, if not the dead…

"I'll answer your question—but remember this: having no arms or legs won't stop you from fulfilling your purpose."

Kazimir flinched, and the Duke's Heir took a sip of wine before continuing.

"First of all, you're not entirely right in saying that your father and I were allies. Your father was an ally of my father and would have sided with him, not me. I'll admit, the Marquis wasn't entirely hopeless like my father and possessed a degree of flexibility... but by the One, what a coward he was! He'd never have stood against the established order."

Another sip to moisten his throat. Hm, the wine from the Marquis's cellars really was quite decent.

"We're like actors in a puppet show, afraid to take what isn't 'rightfully' ours. A duchy for the Theocracy, a duchy for the Commonwealth, a duchy that flaunts its neutrality. A king juggling it all, sending delegations here and there—endless chatter and imposed restrictions. Enough! This king has shoved sabatons so far up our crotches with his laws and historical grudges. Why can't we just take the best of both sides? Why must we tear each other apart over ancient slights? The Third Prince—he's the one who will change the game. He'll step over the past and move forward. He'll unite all the camps and make this country truly great. But I'm afraid my father will resist that to the bitter end, just like all the other ossified fools."

Worked up, Laslo slammed his fist on the table. The half-empty goblet jumped and fell, staining the white tablecloth with red. Drops like blood splattered onto the floor.

"Though I don't know why I'm even telling you this. You're a petty idiot who only cares about showing off to peasants by humiliating others. You'll never grow up, never understand that there are things far, far better than just reveling in your power over commoners."

"L-like what?" Short blurted out in fear, immediately realizing he'd made a mistake.

"For example..."

In the silence of the dining hall, a heavy chair scraped against the floor.

Laslo rose and stepped toward Kazimir, who instantly broke out in a cold sweat.

"Put your hand on the table," Laslo ordered, drawing his sword.

"No, please..."

"Put it down, or I'll take both."

Kazimir complied and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Open your eyes," Laslo commanded, and the prisoner reluctantly obeyed.

The Duke's Heir raised the sword—slash.

The blade, glinting with candlelight, came crashing down. At the last second, Laslo turned it flat. Whack!

"Ow!" Kazimir yelped, clutching his hand, already turning red from the blow.

"Hahaha..."

Laslo laughed heartily, then sheathed his sword.

"For example—reveling in power over nobles. Now that's something else," he finished, and rang a bell.

The great doors of the dining hall opened, and two guards entered—one of them was Monica. Kazimir burned her with a glare; she looked away slightly.

"To the dungeons," the new master of the castle ordered, and Kazimir was led away.

Laslo returned to his seat and rang the bell again.

"Now bring me the guild representatives and a few birds. And have the cooks prepare duck... And someone get this stinking cheese out of here! Throw it into the Abyss!"

The dining hall filled with servants. Two plain-looking men in masks brought in a pair of prisoners. One wore ragged peasant clothes. The other wore a strange uniform—surprisingly well-made for a commoner. Both had sacks over their heads.

A scullion followed, carrying a tray with a roasted duck, and carefully placed it before his master. Laslo tore off a leg and bit into it.

"Chain them up... Now, let's see..."

Stone rustled. From the floor, stocks emerged, complete with blood drains, and niches opened in the wall where prisoners could be shackled.

"Peasant to the wall. The fancy one goes in the stocks," he commanded, waving the duck leg.

The sacks were pulled from the prisoners' heads, and the guild agents knelt before their contractor. They had done their job well—kidnapping enemy soldiers right from the battlefield, just as he had requested. He could forgive that little fiasco where their best agent died embarrassingly without a fight, shaming the organization. Perhaps...

"Most importantly, did you get the weapon?"

"Yes, my lord," one of the guild members said dully and gestured.

A third agent entered the hall, carrying two strange objects. One of them was rusted, as if centuries old.

"I'm not paying for defective samples. Throw it in the same pit as the cheese," Laslo grimaced, extending his hand.

The agent respectfully handed him the musket.

At last, after all this time, he had the chance to examine this weapon. Nearly all metal, it resembled a bolt-thrower at first glance, but there were key differences. No spring mechanism. No limbs like a crossbow. Nearly everything was fixed in place. He couldn't figure out how it was supposed to fire—unless magic was involved.

Ten long minutes he turned it over in his hands, only to admit there was no trace of enchantment. Just a crude artifact, perhaps cobbled together by an amateur mage-smith. Rough, uneven. Disgusting.

It didn't look dangerous. Or impressive. Just a clumsy iron rod, and an awkward one at that.

Seemed he'd need help.

"All right," Laslo turned to the prisoners. "There are two of you, and I need one. Whoever agrees to cooperate gets to live. Any takers?"

Silence. Both soldiers stared him down defiantly.

"Fine. No matter. I'll eat in the meantime. Start with the one in the stocks."

The torturer laid out his tools on a small table. For several seconds, he picked up one knife after another, testing each on his thumbnail. Even the waiting was part of the fear process. At last, he chose one and slowly began slicing skin from the prisoner's back. The captive growled, teeth clenched.

How convenient that the ancestors designed it so one could watch torture during a meal! A shame the blood flowing wasn't noble—it was just peasant filth.

"Here, salt this," Laslo offered the torturer a saltshaker. A scream echoed through the hall.

The second soldier watched and slowly began to waver.

It was always easier to break three than two—one could be killed immediately to terrify the others. Too bad the guild hadn't brought a third.

"So, any volunteers?" Laslo asked after finishing his meal. "No? Think carefully. The moment one of you agrees, I stop the torture. Work for me a few years, and you'll return to your hovel rich enough to shoe your cows in gold. But only one of you gets that chance. Well?"

Silence.

"Very well... Did you at least figure out how it works?" Laslo turned to the guild.

"We observed, my lord. Allow me to demonstrate."

Taking the weapon, the masked man pulled a paper packet from his pocket.

"The whole secret is in the magic powder. It enchants the projectile with acceleration."

He carefully loaded the weapon, raised it, and aimed at the door.

"No, wait. Have them find some peasant and put him in infantry armor," Laslo ordered.

Ten minutes later, a bewildered young man in ill-fitting armor was shoved into the hall.

"Stand there. You—fire," the marquis commanded, reclining in his chair with satisfaction.

The agent pulled the trigger, the flint dropped and... nothing happened.

"Pardon me, sir, one moment," the man said nervously, cocking the flint again. Click! Another misfire.

"You forgot to dust the powder here," his colleague offered helpfully.

They added more powder to the flash pan, re-cocked the weapon. A shot!

The musket roared, hammering their ears and filling the hall with acrid smoke. The bullet punched through the poor fellow, ignoring the infantry armor entirely, and whistled into the corridor, ricocheting off the stone walls.

The spy, caught off guard by the recoil, fell at the same time as his target and cracked his head on the stone floor. Amid the smoke, one of the soldiers burst out laughing.

Once the clouds began to clear, Laslo rose and inspected the body. As expected, the result was troubling, for the Duchy's infantry, anyway. The sight itself, however, was to his taste.

"I see. Remove this. And this too, but send him to the healer," he added, nodding toward the unconscious spy.

Then he extended his hand expectantly to the remaining guild member.

"Powder."

The man rummaged through his voluminous robes and pulled out a container resembling a leather flask.

Laslo poured some powder into his palm, sniffed it, tasted it, and grimaced.

"Send this to the alchemists. Let them recreate the composition."

"My lord, perhaps the Third Prince would be interested in this," the agent suggested cautiously.

"No. Not until I've thoroughly understood it, no one tells him anything. Clear?"

The spy bowed deeply. He might have truly intended to follow the order, but Laslo had already decided to strangle him later, just in case.

After one last look at the weapon, he handed it to a servant.

"Gather the local smiths. Give them whatever they ask for. Those who manage to replicate this weapon will receive gold. Those who don't—death."

"You might as well execute them now," said the prisoner shackled to the wall.

Laslo shot him a sharp but intrigued glance.

"Looking to beg for mercy, scum? I'm listening."

"My name is Noah. And no, I just want to take my comrade's place. I believe it's my turn now," the soldier nodded toward the stocks.

The Duke's Heir cursed mentally. Condor had surrounded himself with soldiers just as insane as he was… But no matter. There were many, many days ahead. Sooner or later, they'd break.

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

By the time we reached the city, Ognevka had already burned to the ground. The few soot-covered survivors wandered through the ruins, searching for anything useful or dragging out scorched corpses.

Some just sat in shock beside the charred skeletons of their homes, unresponsive even as a whole company of soldiers marched past their noses.

"Question them, find out what happened here. But no violence. Offer food in exchange," I ordered, grimly surveying the area.

The fire had broken out about a day and a half ago, and smoke still rose here and there. The air was thick with the stench of burnt flesh—unlikely to fade anytime soon. Perhaps we should have moved faster, but I refused to march until the army had light artillery in case of ambush. Some time was spent building them. More on organizing the troops. In the end, it gave the enemy a head start. Maybe by Erin's standards it was a swift campaign, but we had only arrived to find smoldering tracks and charred ruins. Even if we'd rushed, I doubted we could've changed anything.

The deeper we pushed into the city, the clearer it became—this wasn't looting by deserters. It was a planned operation. Someone had torn through the town like a hot knife, killing everyone and setting homes ablaze—not to steal, but to annihilate.

"Commander, locals say it was knights under the First Duke's banners. One even swears he saw them use artifacts to ignite the city quickly."

"Understood. Organize food distribution from our stores. And make sure everyone who takes it hears this, I'm looking for people to settle in the barony. I'll provide food, work, and shelter. It's been a while since we welcomed refugees."

"Yes, sir!"

"The rest—set up perimeter security and send scouts to..." I pulled a map from my tube and unrolled it. "Nearby settlements. I'm especially interested in... Trofyanki."

"At once." The officer left to relay the orders, and I resumed examining the ruined town.

The devastation hit hard. This was exactly the kind of fate we'd barely avoided ourselves. A few barrels of kerosene and a spark could have done the same to the Bluff if we hadn't extinguished the fire quickly. I cracked my knuckles.

This bastard really had a thing for burning cities…

A few hours later, scouts returned and it became clear: Ognevka wasn't the end. Laslo's troops were razing everything in their path, sending a clear message from their master.

He wasn't trying to hold the land from me. Unlike Short, who clung to every inch, Laslo was throwing it in my face. But he meant to ensure it was utterly useless. People displaced, villages burned. A textbook scorched-earth tactic.

Looked like the County of the Condors would reclaim its borders far sooner than I expected… though what use were ash-covered wastelands to me?

A ruthless approach, but I had to admit—an effective one.

"Gather the survivors. We're heading back," I ordered, turning my horse toward Eagle's Bluff.

The Duke's Heir had managed to taint even our victory.