"Viscount, are you all right?" a soldier covered head to toe in dark ichor was shaking me by the shoulder.
I rose to my feet. My chest felt like it had burst open from the inside, as if I'd shattered some vital organ. Nausea surged, but I was still conscious. For now.
How many minutes had passed?
"I'll live," I answered shortly.
The soldier helped me up and take in the scene. The few fighters still on their feet were looking for survivors. In vain.
"Come on. The Baronet asked for you. Wants to say goodbye."
Ichor sloshed underfoot, shards of chitin stabbing at our legs. Here and there lay melted fragments of the railgun. After a few minutes, we hobbled to the ruined carcass. On a chunk of the Matriarch's shell lay the Baronet—or what was left of him. Half his torso was gone, one arm torn out at the shoulder, his armor mangled and ripped open. An alchemist stood over Hornet, giving him a potion.
"Look like crap, don't I? You're not much better, Randall," Alex coughed, blood spilling from his mouth. "Damn it all, can't even get a drink. My flask's probably lying around somewhere with the rest of me."
I sat down beside him and held out mine.
The alchemist reached for it to help, but the Baronet snatched it with his only remaining hand and brought it to his lips.
"As long as I've got one hand left, I won't be spoon-fed."
I just shook my head. It was a miracle he wasn't dead already. But wounds like that wouldn't be survivable even for a Fifth Rank, let alone a Third.
"Burned out? I get it. Bringing down a beast like that... Make sure they mention I was there too, when the legends are told. Ha... ha... kkhh. Never thought I'd see the death of the Crimson Threat with my own eyes."
"I'll tell everyone we couldn't have done it without you," I rasped, my voice like sandpaper.
"Thanks. In my papers, there's a method. My method of advancement. Take it. And look after my men, Randall Condor. Look after them..."
He coughed and continued in a fading voice:
"Bring... the creature's remains to the capital. Your father will be proud of you..."
"My father? You know something?"
But Alex von Hornet, Baronet of the Grey Hills and commander of the Steel Honor Company, was already dead.
"Viscount. You're in command now," said the alchemist.
I looked around the battered company in confusion. Four people still standing, only two of them barely scratched. The rest—wounded, dying. We needed to get back to camp, collect the spoils, bury the dead. That would take manpower.
"You two, head back to camp. Bring reinforcements and, most importantly, healers. With the Matriarch dead, the spiders won't be able to coordinate, but you might still run into strays. Stay alert. Lives depend on you. The rest, tend the wounded, give first aid, post a watch from the lightly injured, and get some rest."
I followed my own order immediately and passed out.
Several days later.
"So Hornet's dead? Who's in charge now?" asked the head of the foraging team, who'd just brought me grimy, manure-scented sacks of desperately needed saltpeter.
"I am," I replied calmly.
"Pah. I doubt it. Anyway, the orders came from the Captain. If he's dead, we'll need to discuss this with Bert…"
"Discuss away. But leave the goods. I paid for your trip."
"Paid? I didn't see a single coin. Did you, boys?" He turned to the mercenaries, who shook their heads.
Yeah, I saw what he was getting at. I pulled a gold coin from my rapidly shrinking pouch and held it out.
"Unload the goods and it's yours."
The mercenary thought it over for a second, then burst out laughing.
"Trading crap for gold? This is exactly why I signed up! Deal! Unload the cart, boys!"
Still chuckling, they tossed two small sacks off the wagon. Less than I'd hoped for, more than I'd expected. Wouldn't have been surprised if there'd been even less. Not every dung heap is old or properly stored enough for the bacteria to oxidize ammonia and bind nitrogen from the air
.
I peeked inside one sack. Alongside the coveted grayish crystals were straw stems and various brown bits. Well, that's how it goes.
Natural saltpeter extraction isn't for the squeamish.
I handed the sack to a soldier I'd personally recruited. His cuirass still bore the black-and-white stripes of House Condor. There weren't many like him yet, but they were part of why my funds were dwindling.
And then, of course, he showed up. My latest headache. Bert.
"So, you're finally back," he said to the returning soldiers.
"Boss, they say the Captain's dead… Has the council met?"
"...Not yet," he replied after a pause, his eyes flicking over the men standing behind me.
"Amazing how fast some folks run to hide behind the first aristocrat in sight," he added with disdain, stroking the hilt of his sword.
He was pushing for a fight. He probably knew I was drained after the battle. Sure, I could still shape metal by touch, but lifting a man in armor? Hell, even trying to levitate a spoon caused stabbing pain.
I'd done the impossible, and paid the price. As a mage I was nearly helpless. But I couldn't show weakness. Not today.
"Looking for trouble?" I stepped forward, resting my hand on my sword.
He glanced between his men and mine. Calculating. Then decided to back down.
"Not today. Good day to you, Viscount." He gestured at the sacks. "Go grow your flowers. You'll need them."
And with that, he walked off.
"My whole tent reeks of manure," the Alchemist grumbled. The saltpeter purification process had been a little… aromatic.
"Deal with it, Meister. One day you'll be a respected Alchemist," I muttered distractedly, clicking the hammer of the pistol prototype. The flint snapped against the steel, showering sparks. I'd need a lot of those today, which meant a couple dozen soldiers were about to lose their flints and steels. Looks like it works.
Now for the powder. Saltpeter was underway, but the charcoal…
"Grind the charcoal finer. This batch is too coarse."
Orrin muttered something under his breath but obediently began crushing the black powder and mixing it with sulfur.
"By the way, remember we've got a head in the woods that needs embalming? How's the preparation of the balsamic solution going?"
"It's not. I don't have the ingredients," he snapped.
"Don't you?" I set the half-finished pistol on the table and turned.
His stock really was pretty dismal—only the cheapest and most common reagents. You couldn't brew anything proper from that. But if I tapped into Randall's full knowledge, maybe something could work.
Still, better sweeten the deal first. I'd been working Orrin to the bone lately.
"Meister Orrin, what would you think about taking the position of Master Alchemist at House Condor's castle?"
I sat with my face buried in blueprints, inhaling the scent of ink and parchment. Gods, I wanted to sleep, but I couldn't. Just couldn't afford to.
Too many problems. Too many tasks. And as if that wasn't enough, now there were issues with the workers.
Damn lumberjacks were clearing the Black Forest so slowly that it would take months just to extract the head! Sure, I'd solved the embalming issue, but sticking around for several months? Still not an option.
The creature's core turned out to be far too valuable.
It burned in my hands like a hot coal—figuratively. We were too weak, and the prize too tempting. You could earn a non-hereditary title and live comfortably for the rest of your days just by selling it.
Hornet was dead. The mercenaries were fracturing. That core was too much of a lure. So I had to hurry.
I glanced sideways at the blueprint I'd been nose-deep in, a steam engine design.
It needed to be simplified. To hell with pressure gauges, to hell with anything that required precious development time. It just had to work, somehow. Repairs I could always handle later.
Suddenly, soft footsteps behind me. It was late at night, and I wasn't expecting anyone. My instincts screamed, and I rolled away from the table.
A dull thud. A knife embedded itself in the table right where my head had been.
"Shit!" came a voice I didn't recognize.
I tried to get up, but a body slammed into me. In the dim candlelight, I saw greedy eyes and a knife aiming straight for my heart. A metal knife. At the last second, I caught the attacker's wrist.
If my source were working, I'd have turned his own blade on him, but not all aspects of my Gift had faded. I stretched out my fingertip and did the same trick I'd used on the warrior spider. The knife fused into the attacker's hand, piercing and binding it to the hilt. Better than manacles.
His scream of pain rang in my ears. I kicked him off me.
That's a lesson for you, friend. Next time, bring an obsidian blade.
Though… there won't be a next time.
The punishment for assaulting a Lord is the same everywhere. Death.
♦Wildlands, temporary camp of mercenaries of Baronet Hornet, Meeting of the heads of the POV♦
For days now, the camp had been steeped in tension. While the soldiers hacked through the forest tirelessly, their commanders slipped away one by one, leaving their squads behind and vanishing into an ordinary-looking soldier's tent.
Bert the Bold scanned the area carefully before lifting the tent flap and stepping inside, where every notable figure in the mercenary band had already gathered.
"Everyone here?" he asked.
"Everyone except the Viscount," Orrin the Alchemist reminded him.
"Then that's everyone. Gentlemen, Alex von Hornet is dead. We need to decide what happens next."
Bert swept his gaze over the group. His authority had slipped lately, but he was still the strongest warrior in the camp.
"Your suggestions, Bert?" Dolan's tone was calm, and on his lap rested the Piercer, his trusty weapon. For the first time, the crossbow commander had brought his deadly device to a meeting—loaded.
A sensible precaution. When a mercenary leader dies, power struggles often turn bloody. Bert hadn't come unarmed either; he wore a cuirass and had a sword at his belt.
"Our company holds the core of a Crimson Threat-class monster. This is a unique opportunity for all of us…" Bert began.
"The commander's death doesn't release Steel Honor from its contract," Henry said curtly.
"We're legally entitled to spoils," Bert countered.
"Spoils? Were you the one who killed the Matriarch? None of you were even there! You've no idea what happened!" the alchemist snapped.
"The Meister is right. Talk of spoils doesn't apply here. Honestly, we ought to relinquish the lesser cores as a gesture of gratitude," Dolan said calmly.
"Do you have any idea how much that core is worth? If we bring it to the Holy Theocracy or the Commonwealth, we could all become nobles!"
Some winced, others looked thoughtful, but Bert could tell the idea wasn't sparking much enthusiasm. Smuggling the core abroad and betraying the Kingdom wasn't a simple task.
"Or we could sell it to one of the Dukes," he added quickly.
"And how do you propose to explain that to the Viscount and his grandfather, Count Condor?" the Alchemist rasped.
"The Viscount burned out his source. He's no threat now. And his grandfather… by the time he finds out, it'll be too late. Meister Orrin, you've been hovering around the Viscount a lot lately. It shouldn't be too hard for you to slip him a 'healing' brew."
"Killing the Count's only heir is astoundingly stupid," Dolan noted. "Especially after the artifact the Count gave to save his life. If the Viscount dies, House Condor ends. I, for one, wouldn't want to become the enemy of a man whose only remaining goal in life would be vengeance."
"Count Condor is nothing but a straw puppet. Plenty of barons hold more power than that so-called Count. Any one of the Dukes could settle the matter with ease!" Bert snapped.
"Let's say your plan works. What about our families?" the scout commander asked quietly, still wrapped in rags.
"Once we have titles, we'll be able to give them peaceful lives on fertile land," Bert replied firmly.
"If we get them. More likely, they'll just kill us and take the core. We don't have the power to force anyone into an honest deal," Henry countered.
"There's risk, yes. But this is our only chance. Don't you see? The Baronet is dead. We've got no backing. To any noble, we're just a mob of runaway peasants. Either we grab the dragon by the tail, or we die. There is no third option!" Bert flared.
The tent flap stirred silently, and the Viscount himself entered. His once-elegant black doublet was pitted with acid burns, and there were dark circles under his eyes.
"Apologies for being late. Too much on my plate."
And that was putting it mildly. Over the past three days, I'd gotten maybe six hours of sleep, half of it right after the battle. No miracle had occurred—my source was barely functioning. And after using it to fend off that assassin, things only got worse. I could still reshape metal by touch, but everything else was off the table. Any attempt to move metal with thought, even to manipulate raw mana, brought stabbing pain to my chest, and my power leaked away like water from a cracked wineskin. I'd need a long stretch with the healers, and even then, it wasn't guaranteed.
But there was no time to grieve. The moment I woke up, I'd been sprinting around camp like a madman, juggling tasks. I recruited the survivors of the Matriarch skirmish into a personal guard, promising generous pay. Then spoke to those they trusted and brought them in too.
Intercepted the foragers returning with saltpeter. Of course, they were crawling with Bert's men, and he immediately started stirring trouble. Luckily, seeing I already had loyal men of my own, he didn't risk starting a mutiny without more support. I forced them to back down and hand over the saltpeter. Refined it, eyeballed a powder mix.
I had all the messenger hawks killed, so no one could leak word about the priceless core. Assigned trusted sentries.
Swore at and prodded the loggers who still couldn't cut a path through the Black Forest's grasping limbs. Had a few words with the neutral mercenaries. Spent hours with the alchemist figuring out how to whip up enough embalming fluid for the Matriarch's head from his pathetic stash. Led an expedition to the head, preserved it, recruited the alchemist by promising him the castle job and a few personal lessons—if I ever find the time.
Returned to camp. Seized a stash of iron from a blacksmith who'd refused to sell, even for a generous price. Cobbled together a few crude flintlock pistols. Armed my most trusted men. Armed myself.
Convinced Henry, Hornet's former aide, to support me over Bert.
Swore again at the damn loggers. Started a project to help them. Collapsed from exhaustion working on it. Woke up to someone trying to slit my throat. Publicly executed the traitor. Heard whispers spreading through camp.
It was clear—a storm was coming. A mutiny was close. The Master Alchemist had leaked the conspirators' meeting spot, and now I was here. Burned out, sleep-deprived, furious, nearly magicless, pistol at my side.
"So. Gentlemen. You're all worried about what happens next. The patron is dead, we've got no noble allies, and some of you are whispering that Count Condor will use Hornet's death as an excuse to withhold payment…" I began.
"Exactly! That's what nobles always do!" Bert chimed in. I ignored him. No point in arguing with a dead man walking.
"I give you my word, payment will be made in full and on time. I swear it on my House. But that's not what you're really afraid of, is it? What happens after? A band without a strong core turns into brigands or falls apart entirely. And here, we've got a whole village with no protection…"
"Cut the crap. You want oaths? House Condor is forbidden from having its own army. You don't even have lands left! Where are we supposed to put our families? Pile them into the castle like sardines?" the scout commander hissed angrily.
"Not yet. But here's what I've been thinking. Our task was to assess the feasibility of establishing an outpost here, right?"
A hesitant murmur of agreement rose in the tent.
"So, what better way to prove it's possible… than to actually build one ourselves?"
Everyone fell silent, uncertain. I gestured, and Meister Orrin rose from his seat.
"Sounds good, Lord Viscount. But now that these lands are free of the creature that plagued them, they've become a very tempting target. Rich in resources, defensible, fertile soil. The King had already planned to settle the region and was even investing in resisting the Matriarch. Do you really think he'll just hand it over to your House because of clever phrasing?" the alchemist said clearly and deliberately-just as we'd agreed. My cue.
"He will. In exchange for a Crimson Threat-level core. A magical heart that powerful deserves a place in the capital's magical defenses. He won't resist such a gift. We just need to smuggle it into the capital."
"Pah. You're going to trade the greatest artifact found in a century for wasteland and a bunch of mercenaries?" Dolan said, skeptical. "Your grandfather won't like that."
"I don't care what my grandfather thinks. I killed that beast. The spoils are mine. And it's my choice what to do with them. I need these lands. I need loyal people. I need you. Me-not my House, not my grandfather. Me. Swear your oaths, and I swear, we will make history together."
"He's gone mad, lads! But he's right about the value. Think how rich we'd be! We'd all become nobility!" Bert still wouldn't shut up.
"Or corpses," Dolan retorted and dropped to one knee.
"Hey, what are you doing? Guys, have you lost your minds? You really want to be this noble brat's lapdogs?"
"I saw him do the impossible while you were lying in the infirmary. I give him my oath."
Alchemist Orrin knelt, followed-after a moment's hesitation-by the rag-wrapped scout commander.
"I'm tired of endless marching. I want peace for my family."
Unlikely, I thought, but accepted his oath.
The aide, the sergeants, even the grumpy blacksmith-one by one, they all swore loyalty. Everyone except the twitching Bert. The balance of power was firmly mine now. Time to end this.
"The Baronet's last will was for me to look after you, and I swear on my life that I will. However, among us is one who stirred dissent for his own gain-and even organized an attempt on my life. That cannot be forgiven."
"To hell with all of you! You want to serve this cripple-then go rot! Have you even seen him use magic? You had a chance to get rich beyond belief, and you all just ran to hide under some noble's skirts! Pah! Bet the Baronet's rolling in his grave!"
"All done?"
"Yeah! I'm leaving, and I'm taking my men with me. Handle this mess yourselves!"
The shot rang out.
Gunpowder smoke filled the tent, and the body of the former second-in-command hit the ground with a hole in his head.
"I told you-this isn't forgiven. Detain his 'men'. I have no quarrel with them. Once the core reaches the capital, they're free to go."
I collapsed into the nearest chair. Gods, even a minute of sleep would be a blessing. Hard to believe this whole power struggle was finally over.
When I opened my eyes, everyone was still staring at my pistol. A wisp of smoke was rising from the barrel.
"My Lord Viscount… I could be wrong, but… you didn't use magic, did you?" Meister Orrin asked, stunned. Alchemists always saw to the heart of things.
"We'll talk later. Right now, I'd trade anything for a few hours of peace."