Vol 5, Chapter 1

◆ Command tent of Marquis Short, Countess Erin von Klaus's POV. ◆

"You killed him!" Erin pointed her blade, slipping into crudeness from sheer shock.

"Me? Hardly, it was the men of House Condor. The commoners, you see, don't know the rules," he countered, slowly pulling a dark glass vial from his belt.

Aristocrats rarely killed each other. Honorable capture and ransom: that was the usual fate of the defeated. At worst, one would be stripped of land and their title reduced to a mere formality.

It was far easier to strike a deal with a vanquished foe and demand wergild than to wring anything from an heir. And if there was no heir? The neighboring lords would carve up the land, and good luck getting tribute from them. The king served as the guarantor of such deals, disinterested in seeing his vassals slaughter each other and thereby weakening the Kingdom. Every noble lost was not merely a man easily replaced, but a great blow to the realm's military might. A noble house wiped out meant fewer elite fighters for the crown.

Of course, these precautions didn't always help, and nobles still dropped like flies, rarely living to old age. Yet far more of them perished from intrigue than on the battlefield.

Even landless knights were often taken prisoner. Killing the wounded was considered dishonorable. But the death of a whole Marquis?

"Why did you kill him? You were allies," Erin rejected his insinuation. If anyone knew there were no others present, it was her.

"One moment, milady..." Laslo gave a short bow and greedily drank from the vial.

After several gulps, he deliberately twisted the cap back on.

"Done powering up?" Erin asked lazily.

"Ha, if you knew what I was doing, why didn't you stop me? Lacking in prudence, are we, my lady?"

"Not in the least. I'm just hoping this finally makes you a worthy opponent," she sneered, flicking her blade.

"Bold," the Marquis summed up, and attacked.

Their blades clashed. The strikes blurred together into a rapid rhythm, sparks flying. Laslo was decent under the potion's effect, but no more than that.

Time to end this.

Erin's narrow blade darted toward his chest.

A moment.

The tip deflected to the side, repelled by a brown barrier. Gracefully dodging the counterstrike, she retreated several steps.

"Dishonorable," she spat with disdain.

Laslo spread his arms.

"But effective. And there's no dishonor if the opponent dies before telling anyone."

"Dies? Killing a Marquis has gone to your head, hasn't it?"

Her sword began to glow with mana. The technique, passed down among the main Klaus bloodline, could cut through anything—including Laslo's magical shield.

He took a step back, rolled up his sleeve.

"Yes, looks like I'll have to kill you," he said with some regret.

A bracelet on his arm, seemingly cast from glass, contained something red within — resembling a drop of blood. Laslo struck it with his sword's pommel. The bracelet cracked with a crunch. Nothing seemed to change. Erin didn't plan to give him time.

Her glowing blade lunged forward, aiming to pierce the Duke's heir's lung. But...

Mid-thrust, the technique unraveled. The blade dulled, clattered against a still-functioning magical shield. Abyss!

Erin stepped back. Laslo silently launched into a new attack. Blades flashed, crossed, rang out, yet none reached flesh. Every counterstrike Erin delivered was blocked by magical defense. Damn him—how was he suppressing her magic and defending with it at the same time?

Worse, she could feel herself weakening. The broken bracelet was draining not only her magic, but her strength. Abyss. She couldn't break through the barrier now. Call for her knights? They'd just die in vain.

"Interesting device," Erin noted, nodding toward the shattered glass fragments on the tent floor. "Where did you get it?"

"Not just interesting, but expensive. Nearly a hundred thousand in gold," Laslo boasted, lowering his blade slightly. He knew time was on his side.

"I doubt they sell these at the market," Erin probed, but Laslo didn't bite.

He brushed imaginary dust off his doublet.

"Now that I think about it, I do have a proposal. Lately, I've had no interest in women with their heads still on their shoulders, but for you I could make an exception..."

"Not interested," Erin cut him off, visibly shuddering with disgust.

"Well then, you'll lose your head!"

Another round began.

​

With each clash of blades, each dodge and pirouette, it grew harder and harder. Laslo's sword was bloodied for the first time, barely grazing her arm with its tip. Yet the wound didn't close. Drops seeped out and vanished into the air without touching the ground.

"Blood magic?" she asked. Laslo merely smiled.

Outside the tent, the sound of clashing steel rang out. Someone had attacked the perimeter guards, but that was no longer the main problem.

The real problem was that damned magical shield. She had struck it at least a hundred times, but it showed no signs of depletion. That meant she needed to overload it.

"Truth be told, you're starting to tire me. But I might spare you, if…" Laslo began to ramble arrogantly, but was cut off by the revolver.

Bang, bang, bang, bang! With steady aim, she targeted the same point.

The first two bullets ricocheted off the shield. The third embedded itself, suspended in midair. The fourth barreled through its sibling and buried itself in flesh.

Laslo dropped to one knee, blood immediately bubbling on his lips.

"Dis...honorable."

"But effective," she replied, revolver smoking in her hand.

Some small part of her sympathized with the fallen opponent. Yes, it wasn't entirely fair... but coming from a shameless cheat wrapped in every advantage he could buy, complaints about fairness were laughable. In a fair fight, he wouldn't have lasted a single minute.

So now what?

The rules forbade finishing him off, and it would reflect poorly on her as well. With this, Short's execution would be pinned on her too. When word of the double killing of high-ranking aristocrats got out, how far would her house's reputation fall in the eyes of the nobility?

Realistically, she should've avoided this fight altogether. Her branch had no real feud with the First Duke, and the Second Duchy's grudge against the Klauses was far stronger.

So, release him?

Positioning between the First and Second Duchies would be a very smart strategy in theory. As ideological rivals, both duchies benefited from propping up each other's enemies. And no one could accuse the Klauses of exceeding their duty to support their allies. A handful of knights and her presence could be written off as a formal visit.

Meaning, their relations hadn't yet crossed the threshold into open hostility.

So why not release the Heir, strengthening ties with the First Duchy? By the laws of honor, the Duke would owe her a favor. And considering the ransom he'd otherwise pay, the favor should be significant.

Only one problem. The First Duke didn't exactly hold the laws of honor in high regard, and his son, judging by his conduct in battle, outright despised them. That meant the risk wasn't just getting nothing in return. Worse, such people saw nobility as weakness, convinced they'd found a loophole in the system, and that their status would shield them from consequences.

Fools. It is precisely this attitude that forces Erin to take Laslo prisoner instead of walking away with mutual benefit.

"Mother is going to be furious..." she muttered, approaching the marquis as he crawled away from her.

He stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply, splattering blood onto her trousers. But no help came. Judging by the continuing sounds of battle outside, none could.

Erin stepped forward, again and again, until his back brushed against the tent wall.

"Fine, you win. But maybe you'd hear my offer?"

"I've heard enough. Now you'll hear mine. You're coming with me to the Third Duchy, where you'll stay as a guest until we negotiate your ransom with your father."

"He'll never forgive you."

"Your father should worry less about us," she said meaningfully, holstering her revolver.

A gust of wind stirred the tent's fabric, and flung it in her face.

Steel talons flashed, missing her by mere centimeters. Everything flipped, earth and sky trading places. She was thrown aside, tangled in fabric. Darkness.

"Argh..." the girl growled, struggling to tear through the silky bindings. The silk tore with a hiss, but reluctantly. The sword was still in her hand, though it was far too long and unwieldy for the situation.

She reached out to the Source, and... the sword shortened. It seemed she'd been flung far enough that the artifact had deactivated.

She began cutting her way through the mountains of silk toward the light.

Her blade sliced through the collapsed tent. Untangling herself, she rose to her feet, and immediately ducked. Talons sliced through the air above her. A griffon.

And not just one. Two griffons circled the battlefield, steadily thinning the ranks of mounted knights. Without ranged weapons, the cavalry could do little against the flying beasts, who showed no interest in descending for an honorable fight. Like eagles, they dove down from above, knocking riders from their saddles. Though griffons' hind legs were poorly suited for such maneuvers, their reinforced steel talons, half-plate armor, sheer mass, and velocity made them hit like battering rams.

In the best case, the knight escaped with broken bones. In the worst, he never rose again. A few riders who'd managed to preserve their lances during the charge through the infantry were exhausting themselves chasing the flying beasts.

But the airborne riders weren't reckless. They picked easier targets, steering their griffons away from the lances. And with only a sword, it was nearly impossible to reach a diving griffon. The mounted knights knew it, none wanted to be target practice.

One such target wasn't about to swing his sword in vain. The knight reversed his grip, halted his horse, and as the enemy approached... hurled the blade at the griffon's unarmored chest, accelerating it not just with his strength but with magic.

Only, the sky rider had earned his saddle. The honor of riding a griffon was reserved for the best of the best. A surge of opposing magic met the impulse mid-air, and the blade ricocheted off the air itself. A moment later, steel talons, like axes, slammed into the knight's armor at full speed. The joints gave way, and the knight hit the ground, separately from his arm.

The griffon beat its wings, climbing for another pass. Blood dripped from its talons.

Erin scanned the battlefield, looking for Laslo, and found him quickly. He was clumsily hauling himself into the saddle of the same griffon that had guarded the tent. She charged toward him, but the air whistled again. One of the griffon riders had noticed her and swooped down to intercept.

Her blade lengthened, shining. A clash!

She slipped between the creature's legs and slashed upward, cutting through everything in her path: steel talons, armor, limb. The griffon screeched in pain. The severed claws somersaulted through the air and plunged deep into the ground. The rider pulled his mount away, trailing a ribbon of crimson.

Erin didn't slow. Batting the attack aside, she sprinted forward. Laslo, spotting her, urged his griffon on. It began a clumsy run, steel talons clattering across the ground. A wingbeat, and it took to the air.

"Coward!" she shouted after him. The Duke's heir smiled and waved.

"If men keep running from you, perhaps it's your personality that needs work!" he jeered.

A shot rang out. The bullet easily caught up, whistling past his ear. Close. She needed to aim a bit lower and to the right.

Erin dropped her sword and aimed with both hands. The rider's figure darted between sight and barrel. Her finger squeezed the trigger...

Click. The revolver snapped on an empty chamber.

The sixth bullet still lay under the table in that peasant's house.

The griffons flew into the distance. Their shapes dissolved into the endless sky.

The knights moved through the field, tending to the wounded, collecting the dead, and pouring potions down the throats of the unconscious. Fewer than half remained on their feet.

Erin holstered the revolver with an irritated grunt and retrieved her sword.

"Find the Marquis's body. We're heading back."

********

Smoke blanketed the battlefield. A large number of corpses was a surefire path to disease, and without antibiotics, no one wanted to risk an epidemic. Cleanup teams were dispatched alongside those tasked with rounding up prisoners.

Bodies were stripped of armor and hauled in carts to the burning piles, where laborers transferred them onto logs.

The pyres were lit.

"Stop!" I shouted, spotting one of our own being dragged toward the enemy heap. His uniform was soaked in blood.

"He's dead, sir," a soldier misread my command but halted, lowering the wooden cart to the ground.

"I can see that. Pass along the order — ours go separately. And find a messenger, send him to town. I want word spread: I need grave diggers. I'll pay well."

"Yes, sir, and where should I…"

"Leave him here for now. I'll arrange a place," I ordered, heading toward the pyres to inform the others there.

Where the hell are the officers when we actually need them?

Prisoners were being led in across the shell-torn fields. Only a few had their hands tied with rope, there were too many captives and not enough cord. Most trudged along, watched by musketeers.

Til was scolding a squad escorting a burly knight still in battered armor.

"Idiots! Why haven't you stripped his armor?"

"His arm's broken, sir. And he's been cooperative," the sergeant offered in defense.

As I got closer, I realized with some surprise that they were leading in an old acquaintance of mine.

I gave him a once-over. The ropes the squad had been given for tying prisoners were now supporting his broken arm. In his other hand, he carried a helmet.

"I see you're in need of a healer again, Baron."

"Wouldn't hurt," Aluin agreed.

"I'll admit, you're the last person I expected to see here."

"Thought I'd be safer in captivity," Aluin shrugged, then winced from the pain.

"No, I meant — on the battlefield," I clarified.

"Life doesn't always offer choices. May I keep my sword?" He gestured to where two soldiers were struggling to carry an enormous greatsword. "I swear on my honor I won't use it against you or try to escape. It's a family piece. I'd rather it didn't end up in a smelter."

I considered. We'd made deals before, and he'd never deceived me. Why not?

"Fine, but only if you ditch the armor. Soldiers get jumpy around armored hulk."

"I would if I could. Need a smith and a chisel. Your damned shells jammed everything they could."

I placed a hand on the plates. With a bit of resistance, they unraveled into pieces. Swearing, the baron let his helmet fall and clutched his injured arm.

Under the armor, he wore a thick padded jacket.

"Not too hot?"

"Better to overheat than die," the baron said wisely.

I pointed at one of the soldiers.

"Make sure no one accidentally shoots the baron. The rest of you, get back to work."

The baron accepted his sword from a soldier and looked with regret at the scattered armor.

"Our agreement only covered weapons," I reminded him.

Cast iron, iron, even mid-grade steel wasn't an issue, but true high-grade steel was in short supply. Besides, I already knew what to do with his armor — turbine blades...

"Separate the armor for collection. And the baron... give him a bunk somewhere."

"Understood. And thank you," Aluin said with a short bow.

Once the group had moved off, Til leaned toward me.

"You really think we can trust him?"

"I think so. You really believe a broken arm would have stopped him from slaughtering everyone and escaping, if he truly wanted to avoid capture?"

"That's exactly what worries me, sir..." Til grimaced.

Somewhere in the distance, gunfire still cracked, but otherwise the battlefield was quiet. At the edge of sight, white horses appeared — the Countess was returning from her sortie.

Another cart rolled by, carrying a body. The freshly issued uniform had already rotted through, and dry skin stretched tight over bone. Unlike the last battle, this one had not gone bloodless. Unfortunately.

"Time to count the wounds, and count our comrades," I muttered. "Til, send someone to speak with Tamilla. We need funds set aside for the families of the fallen.... And I want a report — how many lives did this victory cost us?"