Vol 5, Chapter 2

The closer Erin's squad came, the clearer it became that something had gone wrong.

One of the knights was carrying his severed arm, another's armor was crushed. Several knights were on foot, and their horses were dragging improvised stretchers on which bodies lay.

Improvised stretchers made of silk! Apparently, they had been fashioned from the marquis's tent. There were no more tents visible on the horizon, and the fabric dragging behind the horses was the same color…

A bit of a shame to waste such valuable material, it would've made a fine balloon, but people came first.

"I need healers," Erin declared preemptively as soon as she rode closer.

"I can see that. How many critical?"

"Critical?"

I sighed.

"As in critically wounded."

"Many," she said, beginning to count on her fingers. "Sir Mott lost his arm, Sir…"

I looked over at the rider who sat rather steadily in the saddle despite the missing arm.

"Stop," I interrupted. "How many will die without a healer?"

"Hmm… Two, I think," she hesitated slightly.

"Good," I muttered and whistled to the soldiers.

They promptly brought over a wooden cart with its sides removed, and the soldiers began untying the improvised stretchers from the horses.

"Don't approach the horse from behind, peasant!" one of the knights snapped, and his horse lashed out with its hoof, nearly striking a soldier.

I narrowed my eyes but had to admit he had a point.

"He's right, they're warhorses. Let them untie the sleds themselves."

The knight dismounted, drew his sword, and with one stroke severed the stretcher's supports, cutting through both the poles and the fabric.

My silk…

The horse was led aside, and two soldiers tried to lift the critically wounded knight onto the cart. Unsuccessfully. The heavy armor made even lifting him impossible, and through the punctured breastplate, his lung was visible. The man was in bad shape, but still holding on.

I rolled up my sleeves to avoid staining them with blood and approached the body.

"Wait, you want to load a nobleman onto a cart like a sack of potatoes?" one knight protested.

"If he doesn't like the transport, he can stay here," I scoffed, leaning over the body.

"Randall, wait," Erin interjected. "Why can't you just call the healer here?"

"He wouldn't save anyone if he ran from one patient to the next. That's why we're bringing the wounded to him."

One of the knights objected.

"But this is a special case!"

Erin and I both shot him sharp looks, each for our own reason. The warrior quieted and mumbled an apology.

"Did I hear correctly—you said 'he'? You only have one healer for the entire army?"

"And you have more?" I snorted. As if healers grew on trees!

"Well, actually, yes. Our supply caravan has a healer and two apprentices."

"And where is this caravan?"

"Still about a day away," she admitted.

"Then what's the point of this conversation?" I threw back and began melting the armor on the wounded man. It was slow-going, but I'd gotten good at this. The key was avoiding the parts where I could feel isolite veins.

"Wait! Don't ruin the armor!" she protested.

There was already a hole in the breastplate like it had hit a sharpened rail at full speed, and she was worried about the armor?

A few minutes later, the patient was at least half as heavy.

Together, we loaded the body onto the cart, and the improvised ambulance rumbled away, its wooden wheel tapping out a rhythm over the uneven ground. Damn, pneumatic tires would've been useful… and proper stretchers too. I swore to myself I'd deal with that when I had the time, and moved on to the second patient, whose armor had been deeply crushed into his body…

After him, I briefly surveyed the rest of the wounded. Mostly fractures. They could wait.

The second ambulance rolled off, and the knights began to grumble.

"Wait, what about us?"

"Wait until the healer saves the dying, then it'll be your turn," I declared.

Which, funnily enough, would've been the wrong approach in a normal situation. Without help, the lightly wounded can worsen and die with much higher probability. Because of this, it's generally irrational to focus on saving those with the gravest injuries.

That logic didn't apply when the difference between saving a dying man or a lightly wounded one came down only to the amount of energy spent, with a near-equal chance of success in both cases.

Erin cleared her throat.

"If Sir Mott's arm isn't reattached quickly, it could cause problems with his reflexes and striking power."

"Then have him stick it in the ice cellar," I snorted.

"Really now, I've never met a lord who cared so little for his allies!" the one-armed knight exploded.

"You're welcome to leave a complaint in the complaints book," I waved him off.

He probably didn't get the exact meaning, but judging by his reddening face, the message came through.

"Randall, ease up. Maybe we can reach a compromise?" Erin said softly, her eyes narrowing with disapproval.

Hoofbeats approached.

I opened my mouth, coughed, and a dust cloud kicked up by the galloping rider rolled over us.

"Milady, we brought him!" the rider called out.

As the dust settled, I saw a bulky body strapped clumsily to a saddle.

"Well now," I clicked my tongue, recognizing the corpse of Marquis Short. "You know, maybe there's room for compromise after all."

"That wasn't us," Erin grimaced.

I raised a brow.

"Ah, got it. Definitely not you. Of course. That's what I'll say to everyone, don't worry."

"No, it's not like that," she shook her head.

"Huh. Alright. Let's go check in with the healer, see if we can find that compromise. And you can tell me about the marquis on the way."

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

"So the First Duke's son killed him? But why?" I summed up once Erin finished.

"You're asking me? That guy is completely insane. He wanted to cut off my head too!"

"You know, blaming things on madness is bad form when explaining someone's motives."

"Great, so you have an explanation?" she crossed her arms.

"Of course not. Otherwise, why ask your opinion?" I grinned, falling into thought.

I'd always thought the First Duke and the Marquis were on excellent terms, but I'd never seen the Duke's son up close. Who knows why he did it. Still, it was a fact I couldn't ignore: he killed the Marquis and tried to pin it on me. One day, I'd make him answer for that. Though, unlike with Kazimir, I had absolutely no interest in keeping the elder Short alive.

I glanced at Erin. Laslo would answer for something else entirely, for trying to separate her from her head.

"By the way, your weapon," she said, handing me the belt.

I drew the revolver and noticed all the chambers were empty.

"Hmm, looks like it saw use. I hope the heir took ten or twenty grams of lead with him?"

"I hit him once."

"Just once? You need more training," I teased.

She shot me a glare.

"He had a magical shield."

"Mmm," I hummed, buckling the holster belt back in place. "Maybe I should make you something with a bit more stopping power?"

"Yes," she said instantly, then rattled off without pausing, "A thousand units, at least four times the power, a hundred rounds per weapon, and a few instructors, preferably of noble birth. Payment in gold. I can offer an advance."

"Whoa, whoa," I waved my hands in surprise. "Hold on, I don't even have that much myself."

"Then maybe introduce me to the master who makes them?"

"That's easy. He's right in front of you," I smiled.

"I should've guessed," she muttered.

"Probably. Anyway, sorry, can't do it. I don't have the spare time."

"That's the only reason? I could send over a couple of Sculptors to ease your workload. Maybe we could revisit the idea."

"Tempting, but no," I frowned.

She threw up her hands.

"Come on. Even I could make a copy of your weapon if I had the time. Without the rounds, it's just chunks of metal, and metal mages know how to shape metal."

"You might be right. But I don't want those chunks of metal spreading across the kingdom prematurely. We'll talk about this later."

"It's in my interest to make that later come sooner, so don't reject help," she pressed.

I sighed. Honestly, if I didn't let them in on the design's secrets and just had them copy certain labor-intensive parts, why not?

"Alright, but on one condition: a ten-year contract with a ban on leaving my barony."

"Five years, and they must be given full living conditions, homes, servants, and a cook," she said, ticking off on her fingers.

"You're asking a lot... but okay."

We shook hands.

"By the way, about how your weapon is useless without powder… will you give me a sample so I can pass it to the alchemists for analysis?"

I choked on her audacity.

"Isn't that a bit bold?"

"I'm asking openly. Would you rather I stole a sample behind your back? Think that'd be hard?"

"Cunning woman. Fine... You'll get it."

"Lovely. Hey, wait! Is that a griffin?" she exclaimed in surprise, pointing to the featherless griffin peering curiously through the window of a village house repurposed into a field hospital.

Though its burns were healing, its feathers weren't returning anytime soon.

I swore and snapped at the soldier guarding the door.

"Why the hell did you bring him here?"

"He came on his own, Commander. Broke the fence and walked in. Doesn't seem to bother Master Ron or act up."

"Randall, maybe you'd sell him to me?" Erin cut in.

"The griffin? Not a chance," I replied firmly and patted the creature's flank. The griffin shot me an annoyed glance but didn't kick.

"You're not planning to ride him in the air, are you?"

"Of course I am," I said flatly, and she sighed.

"You think it's easy? Just hop on and take off? Griffin riders train for years. Out of every ten who begin training, only one makes it. Not everyone's made for it."

"Come on. I'm not planning to fight or pull aerial stunts. I just need fast transport."

"Owning a griffin and not using it in battle, that's true extravagance," she smirked.

I spread my hands. I didn't think basic flight needed extensive training, and I really did need a way to quickly travel across my lands. Relying on Falcon was risky. He was supposed to deliver the fake muskets and return, but still hadn't shown up. Who knows what's happened. Maybe I should just sit down and write Grandfather a letter, or find Ada and try to coax some info from her.

They carried out a patched-up soldier from the entryway. Judging by the round scar in his chest, he'd taken a bolt to the chest, close to the heart.

"Next!" came a shout from inside.

"Anyway, if you change your mind, you know where to find me," Erin concluded and headed in.

Rolling my eyes, I followed.

The nearest house to the front was spacious enough and served decently as a field hospital. Bandages boiled on the stove, the bedrooms housed wounded needing supervision, and a large bench served as an operating table.

The owners were going to have a hard time getting the blood out.

The healer, muttering something incoherent under his breath, wiped the bench with a rag soaked red. The stifling air stank not just of blood, but also of alcohol—some of which had gone into the disinfecting process and, judging by his state, some into the healer himself.

"Oh, do you need help?" he asked, offering a half-hearted bow.

"Thankfully, not yet," I assured him, watching as bloody tools splashed into a clay pot filled with alcohol.

"Could we open a window?" Erin asked, fanning her face.

"Sure," the healer replied without hesitation. "But then Chicka sticks his beak inside and gets in the way."

As if on cue, a beak poked at the closed window, making the foggy mica pane rattle in its frame.

"We'll manage. What about you? Holding up?"

Ron shrugged and pointed at the piles of ash near the "operating table."

"Depends how many more cores and patients they bring me. As long as there's more of the first than the second, I'm fine. At least, unless it goes on for more than two days."

"Good... Think you can take a look at a dozen arrogant knights once the critical cases are done?"

"I'll try."

I turned to Erin, but she was no longer behind me.

I found her crouching behind the operating table, searching the floor. When she noticed she'd been spotted, she rose calmly, brushing off her hands.

"Ahem. I assume that's dust from depleted cores?" she asked, her face flushed.

"You didn't have to touch it to figure that out," I reminded her.

"Shall we talk outside?"

Why not... It was stuffy in here.

We squeezed past a wounded knight being carried into the house and stepped outside.

Erin inhaled the fresh air with pleasure, slipping something into her pocket at the same time. I chose not to comment.

After a breath, she nodded toward the operating room.

"Your healer's burning through cores like they're cookies. Why haven't you stopped him?"

"Because I ordered him to."

"No wonder you've got financial problems," she snorted.

"At least I don't have a problem with people."

A runner interrupted us.

"Commander! Two updates. First, we've got a problem with people..."

Erin let out a loud snort, trying not to laugh. The runner hesitated, then continued.

"...with the people we took prisoner. We have nowhere to put them!"

"Nowhere at all?" I asked, trying to think.

Erin gestured dismissively.

"Why bother? They won't fetch a ransom. Just execute them."

"I already promised them their lives when we captured them. That's not an option."

"Then shackles and mines," she said with a shrug.

"Eventually, sure. But before we send them off, we need somewhere to hold them, and the prison can't even fit a fraction of them."

"Then execute them," she repeated indifferently.

"Quiet. I'm thinking."

Truthfully, I didn't even want them in the mines. Why would I want saboteurs near a drill rig when I have the highly motivated workers? Especially considering Pit was fired up about equipping them with jackhammers instead of picks.

Maybe early on they'd be useful, but not now. Jackhammers weren't primitive tools—handing one to someone who'd gladly break it just to spite me? He'd get whipped, sure, but who'd repair the damn tool?

In short, the deeper we went, the less useful slave labor became.

And releasing them wasn't an option either. They'd just band together and turn to banditry.

"Lock them in dugouts and post guards. Later, we'll make them build their own prison. I think a couple of damp nights in a dirt hole will give them all the motivation they need."

"Understood. And the second update... over there."

The runner pointed toward Ognevka.

On the horizon, a massive column of smoke was rising—far too big for a simple fire.

Looked like the whole town was burning.