Vol 4, Chapter 22. END OF VOLUME FOUR

◆ Half an hour before the battle, Countess Erin von Klaus's POV. ◆
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Some time before the battle.

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Creaky floorboards, a large stove in the center of the room. Although the peasant house was fairly spacious compared to city apartments, it was nothing like the estates of the nobility. And once thirty men in full plate armor had squeezed inside, it became insanely cramped.

"...there's a bed in the far room where you can rest while the response time runs out. Of course, the mattress doesn't meet noble standards," Til continued.

"Randall won't be joining us?" Erin asked absentmindedly, immediately cursing herself. That came out far too ambiguous.

"The commander is inspecting the positions. Don't worry, he asked me to inform you that he'll send a messenger as soon as it begins."

Erin kept looking around the room. A long bench and an equally long table, clearly meant for a large family gathering. A few knights were already seated. The bench groaned in protest but held under the weight of steel-clad warriors.

All the furniture in the house was rough and handmade, no surprise there, since peasants didn't have the money to commission professional carpenters.

"I can take you to another house. But this one is closest to our positions," Til added, noticing her hesitation.

"No, this will do. You may go."

The soldier bowed and squeezed past the knights on his way out of the living room.

Once he'd gone a bit farther, one of the knights commented:

"Did you see that 'baronet's' armor? You could poke through it with a finger. Even my son's training plates are sturdier!"

The others nodded in agreement. Even the title of knight should not be handed out lightly: it implies a certain minimum level of strength. Granting it to someone who hasn't reached that — that's an insult to all real knights.

But the lady didn't react or rebuke the ally's behavior. She silently approached the bench, and the knights who had managed to sit there leapt up so quickly that the bench actually bounced. The room grew even more cramped, armor clanking against armor.

The girl calmly sat at the now-vacant table. Only the most trusted were allowed to sit at a lord's table, and none of these knights had earned that trust. Erin unfastened a holster and placed a strange weapon on the table. If there were a couple hours left before the battle, better to spend them studying a weapon than sleeping.

No marks from a hammer, no rivets, no screws — everything indicated the weapon had been made by a mage, not a regular blacksmith. Finely crafted, perfectly fitted parts, clearly shaped by magic... and yet, not a trace of magic itself. No runes, no circles, no power lines. Not even a minor core to serve as a power source. Of course, there were ways to hide one, but after ten minutes of careful study, Erin concluded there was no core at all.

Then what was there?

After another ten minutes of work, she managed to extract a rotating circular part, within which she felt non-metallic cavities. On one side, a cavity was blocked by the wall of the part, but on the other...

Using her Gift, she pulled out an elongated piece of metal — a bullet. It resembled a musket bullet, but was smaller and shaped differently. Following it, black granules spilled onto the wooden table: powder, the same kind she poured into muskets.

She separated it into several equal piles and carefully examined the mixture. The black smudge it left on her fingers when crushed resembled charcoal. But that was all she could tell. If there was magic in the powder, it was so faint it was impossible to sense.

Was that really it?

Turning the circular piece over in her hands, she noticed not all of it was steel. Opposite each cavity sat a small copper cap. Gently removing one, she discovered it was hollow too. The girl tried to open it and at that moment, a sharp pop rang out. The copper piece burst in her fingers, leaving a fragment in her flesh and a small burn.

"Hm," Erin murmured thoughtfully, pulling the copper out of her finger. A drop of blood fell to the table, but the wound sealed instantly, leaving no trace. There was no way to tell what had been inside the cap.

She picked up the weapon again and fiddled with the levers. Apparently, the upper one struck the same spot where the copper caps were located.

Replacing the circular piece, Erin sat in deep thought.

Nothing else stood out. Without the strange powder, it was just a piece of steel in a fancy shape.

"I need fire," she ordered, and the nearest knight promptly handed her a firestarter.

A spray of sparks fell onto the small pile of powder, and it burst into flame, releasing thick smoke.

"Kkh... kkh... Got it. Alchemy," the girl concluded, stopping her coughing fit.

And she began to think. Seriously.

There were rumors at court that Randall was a talented alchemist. Many also said he was a demonologist, but she hadn't found any traces of demonology. Alchemy, on the other hand...

The overwhelming majority of alchemists focused on enhancing mages and people: potions to strengthen bone and flesh, healing, temporary or permanent gift enhancement, and, at the pinnacle, strengthening elemental bonds and raising Source ranks. Alchemy also had its grand ambitions — the elixir of immortality and the possibility of unlocking elemental Gifts in mages who lacked them.

Some worked on dreadful poisons capable of wiping out entire cities, and the antidotes to match. Others, like the relatively young Steelwrights Guild in the capital, dedicated themselves to improving metals and studying their interaction with magical reagents.

But all of them shared one Achilles' heel. No matter how potent the poison, how exceptional the magical steel, or how powerful the strengthening potion, they all suffered from a shortage of ingredients. Powerful results required powerful magical materials, which took hundreds, if not thousands, of years to grow. Needless to say, those materials were extremely rare.

Randall didn't have access to such things. Which meant he had gone a different route...

The aristocrat ran her finger through the powder's soot. No trace of magic.

That was very, very troubling.

She pushed those thoughts aside for later — for the moment when Short would fail, her mother would take the seat of the Third Duchess, and she herself would become a Marquess. But...

Now, in a quiet moment, she couldn't stop thinking about it. The world was changing. And she didn't know if it was for the better.

It felt like sitting down for a game of Steward, only to be handed chess pieces instead of cards...

The girl thoughtfully ran her fingers along the metal barrel of the revolver.

As a Viscount, Randall didn't match his title. He had no lands, no subjects. Even with the ancestral keep wrested back from Short, he was still on a baron's level.

However, if she was willing to admit that his militia stood a chance of victory — then any baron, armed with this weapon, could challenge a marquess. A baron. Challenging a marquess.

That... completely shattered everything. The structure of the Kingdom relied heavily on personal strength. But if a simple peasant could kill you — how fast would it all collapse?

What was the point of becoming a Marquess, if the title itself ceased to mean anything?

Despite the fact she liked Randall, she had to decide how far their paths truly aligned.

Lost in thought, she reached for the bullet again. Judging by the metallic sound, the projectile wasn't as simple as it appeared. At the very least, it was made of two different metals...

BOOM! — An ear-splitting explosion thundered outside. The bullet slipped from her hand and rolled under the table. Erin rushed to the door, the knights scrambling after her.

Smoke billowed over the distant positions, obscuring Short's advancing troops. The dishonorable bastard — not even an hour had passed of the promised three!

Holstering the revolver, she ran for her horse.

"Saddle up!"

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When the Third Duke had been in better health, he loved telling his descendants stories about the Uprising once the day's work was done. He hadn't lived through it himself, being born much later, but he faithfully recited everything he had heard as a child from his father, and his father before him.

Erin had always thought those stories were exaggerated. At best, she'd considered them old legends with little connection to reality. At worst — mere fairy tales, the usual grumblings of old men claiming that grass had been greener in their youth.

Thousands dead from a single spell? Magical storms that stripped flesh from bone and armor alike? Slaughter so intense each step forward cost hundreds of lives? Fields so piled with corpses that their mounds blocked fireballs in flight?

All of that had seemed absurd in a world of minor skirmishes between baronies and counties, where battles were often decided by nearly bloodless duels. Devastating spells killing hundreds in seconds? That was only possible if one side had lost all magical defenses. Besides, these days every knight wore armor inscribed with isolite patterns that severely weakened hostile magic. And if a magic whip tore through some peasant infantry — so what? The days when commoners mattered in battle were long gone.

Over the centuries of border skirmishes, memories had faded; most aristocrats fought among themselves and couldn't even imagine what the Commonwealth or the Theocracy might bring against them. Why worry about old legends, when the neighbor who stole the village belonging to your great-great-great-grandfather stands right in front of you? After all, both of you know exactly what you can bring to the field.

Sanitized tactics, predictable losses. War had become routine for the nobility. Ha, their ancestors wouldn't even have called what happens in the kingdom nowadays a war, just minor skirmishes. There hadn't been a major conflict between landowners in a long time.

However, the conflict between Condor and Short went beyond ordinary feuds.

The forces Short had gathered made for the largest battle in the last ten years. Large in scale, but otherwise standard, predictable — a battle where Short was supposed to crush his opponent utterly.

But that battle never happened.
A massacre happened. 
A massacre, like in the old Duke's tales.

Seeing it, Erin realized something important: the Head of the House hadn't exaggerated. He wasn't trying to impress anyone. He was simply recording a chronicle, recounting word for word what their ancestors had seen.

And the closer she rode, the more she understood.

Iron pipes roared like enraged demons, spitting clouds of searing steel at the enemy. Every step  gained cost the enemy dozens of men. Every successful volley took hundreds of lives.

Massive shells burst within the ranks, killing men in full plate just as surely as tactical-level battlefield magic.

Erin involuntarily tugged on the reins, slowing her horse.

"A hard fate they drew, few returned from the field..." she recited, her eyes hungrily scanning the carnage.

It was a magnificent sight, and a terrifying one. Because she understood all too well that anyone could have been in Short's place.

All thoughts of whether it was in her interest for the centuries-old system to be overturned vanished. They were washed away by rivers of Short's soldiers' blood. The genie couldn't be put back in the bottle. Now, her duty was to make sure her House adapted and survived, even in these new conditions. One way or another, no matter how the world changed, the nobility would still have advantages...

A blinding flash lit her vision. The enemy wasn't going down without a fight.

The aristocrat immediately raised her signal horn and blew a call. The knightly wedge turned mid-gallop and widened the gap. The soldiers looked around, searching for the location of the incoming divine strike.

A strike no magical shield could stop.

The air vibrated. Clouds of dust, ash, and rust rose from the right flank.

There!

Erin brought the horn to her lips again and signaled. The knights regrouped into a wedge formation on the move. Not as quickly and smoothly as she was used to, but it would do.

Infantry was already rushing to the breach, led by the lord himself. In that case, there was no point in charging into friendly fire. The cavalry maneuvered back, giving themselves space for a proper charge and waiting for the moment when Condor's men would fire their guns.

Smoke began to engulf the ranks. Was it time yet, or still too soon?

With some concern, she watched Condor's duel with one of Gaston's knights, but it seemed everything was going well. Signal!

The infantry parted to clear a path for the cavalry wedge. A cold wind blew in her face as the horses broke into a gallop. Lances lowered, the riders thundered toward the retreating enemy.

Impact.

The lances pierced men straight through. Now the enemy wouldn't have a chance to regroup. Hooves slid across blood-slick ground. Steam rose from the overheated horses. The enemy scattered to the sides, just as they always did before a knightly charge.

The riders discarded shattered lances and drew their swords to cut down the fleeing. Erin scanned for a more formidable opponent and found one.

One of Gaston's heavily armored foot soldiers was hurriedly reloading a bolt-thrower, showing no intention of retreat. He'd do nicely.

The spring struck with a loud twang, sending more bolts flying. Erin raised her hand toward the shooter and immediately noticed the bolts had obsidian tips. Looked like he had come prepared.

But it wouldn't help him.

In a blink, she drew her sword and deflected every projectile heading her way. Light bolts flew noticeably faster than steel ones, but still incomparably slower than a bullet.

Realizing the shots were useless, the knight cast aside the bolt-thrower and drew his sword, a heavy hand-and-a-half blade of fine craftsmanship. He raised it in front of him defensively, hoping to deflect the blow.

Clash!

Erin's shining, slender blade effortlessly cleaved through both the sword and the helmeted head beneath it.

"Makes sense. Gaston banked on group defense and skimped on personal gear," the aristocrat muttered, already searching for a new target. Surprisingly, no worthy opponents were in sight. Not a single aristocrat riding a chimera was anywhere nearby. Just a ragged group trying to block the way to the marquis's command tents in the distance.

Foolish. The cavalry could've simply gone around these fools, but why bother?

A horn signal sounded, and the scattered knights reformed into a tight cluster. Their swords were slick with blood, their horses' hooves clinking with crimson.

From the enemy's bristling spear lines, a few arrows flew, weakly clattering against armor and falling to the ground.

The volley was less annoying than summer mosquitoes.

"Forward!" she commanded, and the wedge surged ahead with growing speed.

The smarter enemies simply dropped their weapons and ran the moment they saw the steel armada approaching. The rest held onto their spears, praying for a miracle. None came.

Moments before the impact, their crude weapons lifted of their own accord. No matter how hard the soldiers tried to brace them against the ground, their spears betrayed them, succumbing to the knights' magic. Perhaps, had the tips not been iron, or had there been an inquisitor among them... but what's the use dreaming of the impossible?

The armored riders tore through the infantry like a knife through butter, shattering bones and crushing skulls. Survivors scattered in panic. They wouldn't stand in the knights' way again.

Yet Erin felt no satisfaction. There had been no worthy foes on the battlefield. Those she wouldn't be ashamed to cross blades with had either fled or died. Defeating the rabble Short had scraped together from every corner of his domain felt hollow.

Where were the enemy knights?

Not even bodies were visible, though it was hard to tell one corpse from another in the mangled carnage. Still, she knew where to find a proper opponent — if he hadn't run.

"Ride to the enemy camp! Capture their commander!"

After smashing through a few more retreating infantry clusters, they reached the tents. No guards in sight, but a griffin sat right at the entrance, haunches tucked beneath it like a dog. At the sight of approaching riders, it reared and let out a throaty cry.

Odd. The griffin's rear was armored, as were its hind legs, reinforced with long steel talons. Extra weight for a scouting mission, and protecting the lower body was useless in aerial combat. This beast had been outfitted for ground assault. Such armor was rare.

"Surround it!" Erin ordered.

Wherever the rider was, now was the time to kill the mount while they were apart. Otherwise, it would be much harder.

The knights moved into a semicircle, but the beast correctly assessed its chances. With a furious screech, it lunged at the flank. The knights tried to intercept, but the griffin's paw swiped one from the saddle, and its beak drove into another's horse, snapping its neck.

One knight was thrown, tumbling across the ground, but managed to drag his blade across the griffin's shoulder. Blood trickled between its feathers. The wound probably wasn't fatal, but the griffin abruptly lost the will to fight. Smashing through the circle, armor clanking and claws gouging the ground, the beast picked up speed and, with a heavy beat of its wings, soared into the sky.

"Damn it!" Erin cursed, slashing the air in frustration. Wait... maybe?

She drew her revolver, took aim... аnd lowered it.

The creature had flown too high. The chances of hitting it were slim. Holstering the revolver again, she dismounted and headed toward the command tents.

"Wait here," she ordered the knights and stepped inside.

Short hadn't skimped: instead of one large tent, there were several interconnected ones.

Inside was eerily quiet. Only the crackle of a torch ahead, and a strange sound, something burning. The tent reeked of singed hair, skin, and fat.

Holding her glowing sword before her, she crept deeper, finally reaching the central pavilion.

Someone was behind the curtain. She could see the shadows flicker across the fabric, cast by torchlight. The smell came from there too.

With a flick of her sword, she slashed through the curtain and burst inside... and saw Short.

Blood ran down his forehead, streamed along his neck, and dripped quietly to the ground. A metallic pellet gleamed from within his skull, buried deep. An expression of astonishment was frozen on his bloated face.

Standing over the marquis's body was the heir of the First Duke, torch in hand, attempting, for some reason — to cauterize the wound on Short's forehead.

"Couldn't you knock?" Laslo asked irritably, tossing the torch aside.

The flame flared up, casting light across the tent, leaving no room for doubt.

Marquis Short was dead.

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END OF VOLUME FOUR