Vol 4, Chapter 20

◆ Battlefield, Baron Aluin’s POV. ◆

"Nice day today, isn't it, Baron?"

"Couldn't be better," Aluin grunted, avoiding the speaker's gaze. Just the persistent attention from Count Gaston already made the day unbearable, and that was the least of the baron's problems.

His presence in an army marching willingly to its death, a force he was nominally supposed to lead, was a much, much bigger issue.

The Marquis refused to listen to reason, obsessed with dreams of victory, dismissing the previous defeat as mere bad luck. When Aluin had tried, gently, to suggest that things were far from simple, Short had widened his eyes and thrown him out of the office.

A pitiful fool, drowning in self-delusion and complacency.

Things with the Duke's son were no better. Laslo hadn't left his chambers, demanding new girls and red wine every day. And every night, the girls left headless. That alone disturbed the baron—this thirst for murdering lovers pointed clearly to something being very wrong with the Marquis.

The conversation had gone nowhere. Ten minutes of yelling and one bottle of wine smashed against armor later, — the wine-reeking warrior had left the First Marquis's quarters with nothing to show for it.

There would be no air support. None. Laslo refused to fly even within a kilometer of enemy positions. Worse, the Marquis had bluntly told the baron that his knights would watch for deserters from above and deal with them. That alone showed Laslo had no doubt: there would be deserters.

Aluin may not have been a master of intrigue, but even a fool could see it—both marquises already knew what he'd tried to tell them. They knew, and did nothing.

Count Gaston, on the other hand, clearly knew nothing. And while Aluin racked his brain on how to escape the trap, the count only served as a constant distraction.

Day after day passed. The First Duke's wrath was growing, but the Marquis kept stalling. "Just a little longer, we're still waiting on those… and these," he said, expecting the arrival of yet another unit.

Even the men were beginning to question why so many troops were needed to fight a single rebel.

Then came the day Aluin's hopes were dashed. After receiving another letter from the Duke, a noticeably thinner Short ordered the troops to form up and march.

A horrible day.

Tuning out Gaston's babble about how the sun gleamed off the boys' armor, Aluin stomped down the road in heavy sabatons.

The only solution he could think of was to fortify his armor as much as possible. Now, every step was laborious, even though he'd grown much stronger since the fight with Clemen. But was it enough? Recalling the shot from that demonic weapon sent a shiver down his spine. Each time he faced Condor, the Viscount's weapons grew more terrifying.

Aluin truly did not want to be on the battlefield today, but duty was duty. The family sword was strapped securely to his back, though he doubted he'd need it. The shield, though…

He'd always had a soft spot for large tower shields, but this time he outdid himself. All metal confiscated from local smiths had been used to reinforce it. After hours of work, he held a veritable wall of steel, a full finger thick, which only his enhanced strength allowed him to lift at all.

And still, it gave him no confidence he would survive the day.

How ironic.

The explosion at Clemen's keep, the energy surge, the severe wounds—all of it had given the baron a unique opportunity to advance. As a Junior Mage, he now stood among the kingdom's strongest barons, with real potential to vie for a count's title. His dream of growing stronger had come true. He now possessed power he'd never even dreamed of.

And yet…

Every earthshaking step he took was soaked in fear. What use was power when he'd seen even stronger men fall?

The seemingly invulnerable armor felt like a prison, but what else could he rely on? These idiots marching beside him had no idea what was waiting.

"Your shield is so… massive, Baron," Gaston bit his lip. "Are you sure you don't want to lead my legion?"

"I'll be nearby," the baron replied diplomatically.

"Oh, you'll change your mind once you see my boys in action!" the Count exclaimed, stroking the long horns of his goatlike chimera. "Hmm, looks like our commander's already setting up the command post? Aren't we a bit far from the battlefield?"

Aluin squinted, trying to peer through the narrow slits of his helmet at enemy positions. The city lay on the horizon, its outskirts ringed with what looked like earthen fortifications. He felt a fleeting urge to remove his helmet for a better look, but quickly suppressed it.

Plenty of time for that later.

The sight of Short's servants already pitching the command tent reaffirmed the baron's suspicion: the fat man understood perfectly well that nothing good awaited them. Otherwise, why set up the command post several kilometers from the battlefield? There'd be no way to issue orders quickly or coordinate troops. And the gryphons, who could have relayed signals from above, were nowhere in sight.

"Hold!" Count Gaston commanded, and the column of legionnaires marching behind him froze in perfect unison.

Precise, aligned, step for step, not a single unnecessary movement.

Only the priests at the center of the armored square disturbed the picture of military discipline. They brushed road dust off the altar and prodded the heretics shackled together with iron chains.

Gaston clicked his tongue and urged his chimera toward the command tent, where Marquis Short stood observing the setup.

"My good friend, don't you think the command post is so far from the field of battle that not even the sharpest-eyed soldier could lay eyes on his lord?"

"It's a military ruse, Count. Our enemy's cunning forces me to act this way," the Marquis replied, pulling a scroll tube from his saddlebag and handing it to a servant. The man accepted it with a bow, leapt onto a horse, and galloped off toward the enemy lines, a white flag fluttering in his hand.

"And that?" Aluin asked in a low voice.

"An ultimatum. I've given the Condors three hours to comply."

"Isn't it a bit premature to send it? We haven't even formed ranks after the march," Gaston frowned.

"Oh, there's no need to worry, Count. The ultimatum was sent at precisely the right moment. We won't wait for the full three hours, we'll attack the moment our troops deploy from marching columns." The Marquis gave a disgusting, nervous giggle.

"Cowardice…" Gaston grimaced.

"Military ruse," Short repeated, turning his gaze to the baron.

Aluin shrugged. He didn't care. All that mattered was getting out of this mess alive.

"Splendid," Short clapped his hands, and Aluin noticed the Marquis's fingernails were chewed down nearly to the flesh.

"Ahem. You don't intend to lead the troops personally, honorable Marquis?" Gaston asked cautiously.

"I would love to, Count, but… I twisted my ankle on the eve of battle, so I shall gladly leave all the glory to you," Short replied, averting his eyes.

"And His Excellency, Marquis Laslo? He doesn't plan to be present either?"

"Don't worry. He and his knights will be securing our rear."

"And what about reconnaissance?" Aluin interjected.

"I think even you, Baron, won't manage to get lost while standing right in front of the target. Although, your ability to wander in place is already the stuff of legend."

Aluin cursed inwardly. Fat bastard. If the Marquis had gone through what he had… Ha. Short would've just died. That joke of a man, who had become a Marquis only through birthright and court connections, could never have survived what Aluin had endured. It wasn't about magical power—Short was likely still stronger.

It was about spirit and valor. This man didn't deserve his title.

Too bad the Duke frowned heavily on internecine conflicts. Those could've corrected this injustice.

"So neither of our strongest warriors will be present on the battlefield?" Gaston pressed, casting Short a very suspicious glance.

"No, no. Of course not. We'll be in reserve," the Marquis waved his hands quickly.

"Well then. In that case, I have something to say." Gaston turned pale with rage, but Short cut him off.

"Just a moment. I see the troops have gathered. I too have something to say to them all."

Short guided his horse past the Count, pulling a spellbound amulet from his pocket and clasping it around his neck.

Beyond a cordon of trusted guards stood his army, a ragtag assembly drawn from across his domain. Some wore plate, some chain, others just padded jackets. Axes, spears, maces, swords, crossbows, and bows, all types of arms were mixed. The few professional retinues looked out of place among the rest, who were lounging on the grass, already dreaming of looting the city.

The Marquis swept his gaze over them with distaste.

Most of them were just rabble, but there were many.

There was no way to organize this crowd. Even if the barons' representatives agreed to stick to a strategy, the moment the fighting started, most would charge forward, eager to be the first to pillage. The smarter ones would hang back, letting the greedy get hit by the first enemy volleys. But in the end, no matter how you tried to coordinate them, the troops would collapse into a mob.

Forget clever tactics. There was only one hope: that they'd simply bury the Condors in bodies, or at least buy enough time for Gaston's armored fist to break the rebels' spine.

If only the rabble didn't rout first…

"WARRIORS!" Short bellowed, nearly deafening himself with the voice amplified by the artifact.

The soldiers straightened immediately, their chatter silenced.

"Today you face the hardest battle of all… Yes, I said that right. Our enemy is vile and without scruples. He has found an artifact of the Ancients, one capable of casting terrifying illusions on a large number of people! It will seem like your comrades are dying all around you, but it's all a trick meant to frighten you. I don't know exactly how the artifact works or what lies it might show you, but expect fire, smoke, and deafening noise. Remember, it's all just the enemy's illusion!"

Short paused to gauge the reaction. The soldiers didn't look panicked yet, but their anticipation of easy plunder was clearly fading.

"Remember this! Those who fall for the enemy's magic, who abandon their comrades and flee, will face death. Loyal units under my command will execute all cowards, for they disgrace their lands. I repeat, so that all understand: there will be no mercy for those who believe the illusion and try to run from battle! Understood?"

The soldiers responded with a disorganized murmur, confusion written across their faces. This was supposed to be a walkover against a weaker foe, but all this talk of magic and illusions… it was unsettling.

"And now—CHARGE! Fear no enemy tricks! Crush them! I GRANT THREE DAYS TO PLUNDER THE CITY! I don't care, do whatever you want with those traitorous townsfolk!" Short added sweetly.

The troops roared, raising their weapons in the air. The most eager charged toward the city, but slowed after a hundred meters. The enemy was still far off. Their battle fervor faded fast, and, still weary from the march, they began trudging toward the foe.

Gaston, resting his hand on his sword, stepped in front of Short just as the latter turned toward his tent.

"Why am I only now learning the enemy has such abilities?" he hissed.

"Oh, please. It's just a trick. Now you're aware of it and won't be fooled. Besides, your relic will likely protect you," the Marquis replied with a fake smile.

"This stinks, my friend. I demand a revision of my share."

"A revision? Frightened of a few petty illusions, Count? Our forces still outnumber the Viscount's pathetic few hundred by at least thirty to one, maybe sixty. What's there to fear?"

"Don't dodge the question! You withheld information from me," Gaston protested.

Short glanced at the slowly retreating army and spread his hands.

"Fine, take the whole Condor estate. Happy now?"

"Perfectly," Gaston smiled sweetly, then mounted his chimera. "Legion! Forward!"

The synchronized stomp of sabatons rang out behind him, but Aluin didn't hurry to join.

"Ahem. Your Excellency, you mentioned trusted units in the rear. Perhaps they could benefit from my presence," the baron offered, hoping for a way out.

The Marquis shot him a look of contempt.

"Have you forgotten that the Duke himself appointed you commander? What would it look like if you were skulking in the rear? Your place is at the front. I'm sure with such heavy armor, you've nothing to fear… especially from a few illusions."

No luck.

The baron gave a short bow and followed after Gaston.

Illusions, huh? Ha. Aluin would love to believe that, but he couldn't. It wasn't illusion that killed his chimera, or tore apart the demon-possessed Clemen. And it certainly wasn't illusions that Short feared so much he hid kilometers from the fight.

Looked like he'd have to rely on that specially reinforced shield.

Meanwhile, the Count trotted along on his horned chimera, humming a merry tune. No doubt he was already daydreaming about which works of art he'd steal from House Condor's estate. Noticing his companion's gloom, Gaston pulled out a perfume vial.

"Chin up, Baron. Care to share in my fragrance? Your armor reeks of iron."

"No, thank you." Aluin grimaced. The Count's perfume alone could be a weapon; thankfully, out in the open it wasn't as lethal.

"Pity, pity… Hm, look! What's that hanging over the city?"

Aluin tried to look up, but his helmet, welded to the armor, made that impossible.

"What is it?"

"Not sure… looks like a sphere. Probably held aloft by air mages," Gaston mused, twirling a lock of hair.

"I'll take your word for it," Aluin muttered, abandoning the attempt to look skyward and focusing instead on the enemy's fortifications.

Most of the distance had already been covered, and now the enemy was clearly visible—men hiding behind low walls or inside equally shallow trenches. Amusing. It was as if Condor couldn't decide whether to build proper ditches or proper walls, and in the end made neither.

"If we're speaking of marvelous inventions, I have something to impress you as well. Behold!" Gaston pulled a long, thick ribbon from the saddlebag, along with a small metal ball, roughly the size of an eyeball.

He tied the ribbon to his mount's horns, placed the ball in the center, and with a touch of magic, drew it back.

"This, my dear baron, is a truly magnificent invention. I dare say it will one day replace crossbows and bows. The ribbon is light, simple, and compact, and using it is hardly more difficult than a spring-shot!"

BWANG! The ribbon thrummed, and the ball shot forward toward Condor's lines.

"I believe you missed," Aluin noted.

Gaston burst into laughter and pulled out another ball.

"Perhaps. Sadly, I've yet to master this weapon. However, did you see the projectile's speed? Imagine using a runed sphere, and you'd have a weapon of great power. Stretch it between trees, and you've got yourself a kind of ballista! The key is tuning the shot just right. It's like playing the harp. Do you play the harp, Baron?"

Aluin didn't get a chance to respond.

Something large whistled through the air between them. Aluin could swear it was a much larger version of the same projectile Gaston had just fired.

BOOM! A thunderclap erupted ahead, quickly followed by a crash of steel and the thud of collapsing bodies.

Gaston turned, the lead sphere slipping from his hand.

The cannonball had clipped the edge of the armored square, mangling and shattering everything in its path before continuing on through the blood-soaked field. To the soldiers' credit, they didn't even break formation.

"How… are we… already within range? OPEN THE RELIQUARY!" Gaston shrieked.

The priests rushed to obey. One by one, locks snapped open from the gilded chest. In seconds, the lid swung back, revealing a single fang—too small for a beast, too large for a man.

Aluin felt something trying to drain the strength from his body. The pull was so strong, for a second he thought the relic might actually succeed.

The anti-magic field was so intense that the baron became immobile inside his armor. Any mana that left his body was instantly siphoned away, and his muscle strength alone wasn't enough to move the over-weighted armor.

His finger-thick steel shield stood like a wall in front of him, guarding his body. Moving it was impossible, but fortunately, unnecessary.

Gaston stared at the corpses, praying the illusion would vanish and they would rise. But the bodies only bled.

The legionnaires slowly began reforming their lines.

Whiiizzzz! Another round screamed by, just missing the altar.

This one, unlike the last, didn't continue on—it exploded with a deafening blast. Shrapnel howled through the air, tearing into the rear lines, piercing armor, biting into shields, and dismembering unprotected heretics.

A priest holding the reliquary's lid fell from the altar, blood spreading across his white robe.

"Why isn't it working? Damn it! I can feel it—it should be working!" Gaston roared.

"My lord, it IS working! I swear by the One, it's working!" a priest shouted back, clutching his bleeding side.

The cannonade intensified. Death rained down on the disorganized crowds that had strayed too close.

No longer were they facing lone cannonballs, but clouds of small projectiles—deadly against chainmail, lethal even to cheap plate.

Even as entire swaths were carved through the mass, it wasn't enough to stop the wave. Remembering the Marquis's words, the men surged forward, desperate to reach the trenches.

Grapeshot slammed against Aluin's shield. It had lost much of its force, failing even to scratch the surface, but left behind bloody splatters from less armored soldiers. Gaston's chimera reared—she wasn't armored, so the hits weren't fatal, but certainly painful. The Count barely stayed in the saddle. A bleeding gash split across his forehead where the shrapnel had struck.

Whiiizzzz—another round screamed overhead. This time, the aim was true: it struck the altar dead-on! Shards of white marble and pure gold flew in all directions. The reliquary launched skyward, spinning once before hovering for a heartbeat over the battlefield.

Screams, blood, smoke.

As if surveying the chaos, the reliquary dropped, its lid snapping shut midair before crashing to the ground, the fang once again sealed inside.

"Gaston! We have to either attack or retreat! We're sitting targets out here!" Aluin shouted, pulling his shield closer.

"Retreat? Never! Forward, forward! Loose formation! Charge! Chа-а-arge!!" The Count drew his rapier and galloped ahead.

The baron didn't rush. He scanned the battlefield. Part of the Marquis's forces were nearing the trenches, but dropped like wheat before a scythe. Thick smoke billowed up from the entrenchments—but the cursed wind blew it straight into the attackers' faces. Soon, that flank vanished entirely behind smoke and screams.

"Damn it... Someone has to be reaching the defenses, right?" Aluin muttered.

He barely blinked before he found himself swallowed by the advancing legion. Armored foot soldiers flowed around him like water around a stone.

BOOM!

A blinding flash struck his eyes, and his shield rattled under a hail of shrapnel. Blood splattered his armor. A chunk of flesh slammed into his pauldron. That blast had been close. Damn, maybe it was time to run?

Too late.

The next shell struck his shield directly. In an instant, Aluin realized he was airborne. Despite the massive weight of his armor, he was hurled like a ragdoll by unimaginable force. Not even a dragon could have launched him this far! His shield arm cracked—at least one fracture, likely more. A few seconds of weightless flight and—

IMPACT!

The landing knocked the breath out of him. His ears rang like bells. The shield, now warped, had absorbed something hissing and round—

BOOM!

The shield was torn from his hand, nearly taking the arm with it. Aluin was flung again. Shrapnel punched into the joints of his armor, while others skidded past, gouging long scars into the metal. Blood pooled beneath him. Whose blood? Who knew.

He tried to stand, but gave up.

The cannonade drummed on in his ears. Whether real or from concussion, he couldn't tell. Aluin almost wished to pass out, but his body was too stubborn.

Casting one last glance at the corpse-strewn battlefield, Aluin lay back.

Best to play dead, wait for the shelling to stop, and hope the Marquis's execution squads would pull back.

And then... maybe he could still escape.