《The Gunsmith of Avengard [Progression Fantasy]》


 [1] One Day Ill Build My Own

    Chapter One


    One I''ll Build My Own


    My story began in a cathedral.


    Back then, much of my life was spent in one cathedral or another. These places of worship served as places of refuge, and though today not many stand, at the time, my family fled westward, spending our years from one cathedral to another.


    My parents were not the religious sort; only the pragmatic kind, and we learned to flow with the shape of whichever sect or church or circle of the pantheon was dominant in whichever part of the region we figured was safest from the war.


    When my hometown was sacked and we found our home in our first cathedral at Fleur d''Lain, we learned to serve Avandra, and Her golden crucible, and we learned to view the world from Her Seven Laws of Justice.


    Similarly, when we fled to Listerborough, we drank wine and worked the monastery''s vineyard.


    And on and on, until we found ourselves in Avengard.


    The Cathedral of Avengard was small -- easily among the smallest that we had found refuge in -- but special to me, for the simple fact that at the time, it was home. The building itself was seemingly humble; it was devoted to the Ascended Deity Avenor. He was no primordial being who had crafted the skies or carved out mountains; but still he was a god. He was a mortal who had Ascended. He found his calling in life, devoted himself to it, and achieved godhood.


    Sometimes, it''s the ordinary things done extraordinarily well that make all the difference -- and this was a sentiment I could see echoed in Avenor''s Cathedral itself.


    That one midsummer afternoon, I was a wide-eyed nineteen year old taking in the vaulting supporting the interior ceilings of the cathedral, right over the iron baldachin by the altar. Now, by that afternoon, we had already spent close to six months in Avengard, but there''s a difference between walking past the vaulting of a building, and appreciating the intricacies of each intersection of a cathedral.


    With each step I took, my neck craned upward and eyes squinting to see every minute detail, I felt emotions that could only be shared through artistry. Feelings of devotion. Of passion. Of concentrated ambition. Of recognizing one''s calling and pouring one''s soul into it. The bliss of creation.


    I was a refugee. It had been five years since my family had owned the roof that we slept under, since our hometown was razed, but still, by the grace of Avenor and His stonemasons, I was happy. At the very least, I had something simple to be thankful for.


    His masons incorporated bronze rivets all over the cathedral, partially to invoke the same imagery of Avenor''s own bronze armor, but also to preserve the structural integrity of the cathedral in tighter spaces. In effect, each vault, each buttress, each column held more weight while using less stone and mortar, and as a result, the cathedral itself looked small and maybe even inconsequential to the uncaring eye, but was a labour of love through and through to anyone who stopped to appreciate it.


    Colored tints of light shone through stained glass in some sections of the cathedral''s interior; in others, the glass had been hauled away for materials. They had been gone since before we had arrived in Avengard for refuge. I wished that I could have had the opportunity to enjoy the cathedral how it was meant to be seen.


    "Scipio?" a deep, gravelly voice called my name. It must have been Javis, an older man and fellow refugee.


    "Beautiful day to you," I replied.


    "You shouldn''t be here," he told me, "It''s unsafe. They had told everyone days ago. You know better."


    "But you''re here," I pointed out. He smiled. I was certain that he was there for the same reason as I; in another life, Javis had been a master mason in his home city. He wrote and crafted the designs that bricklayers and carpenters would carry out to build homes, workshops, once even a portion of an important keep. He was a creator; everything I wanted to be.


    "I''m allowed to be here. I''ve been asked to advise the Laurel on the project," he corrected me.


    "The project?" I asked, and his eyes gave me the answer. "Oh," I muttered, dejected. The project, then, is what they were calling it. This was an abstraction of what was really happening -- the demolition and material salvage of the Cathedral of Avengard.


    "You think I shouldn''t be working with them to bring down the cathedral. You think that it''s wrong, in some way or form." He paused, as if expecting some form of answer or denial from me; there was none, and so he continued, "But the truth is, this would happen even without my intervention, young Scipio. And the cathedral is, as I''ve taught you, a complex and intricate opus of stone and bronze. Without a master mason to advise them, people may get hurt. Innocent people."


    "Has Avengard none of its own master masons to bring down its own stone?"


    "They''re all off to the lines," Javis said, before pulling a wooden pipe from the inner folds of his wool cloak, filling it with tabak, and holding it to a nearby lit votive. He held it to his mouth, inhaled, and blew out a smooth, thin stream of white smoke. "Priest Seledor asked for one, and I answered. It was as simple as that."


    "I still don''t understand why Priest Seledor allowed to this to happen to begin with. He''s a pious man," I mused.


    "He''s a pragmatic man," Javis added. "He understands the sheer amount of bronze and iron keeping this place together. He''s read the first master mason''s design and understands the cost. And he understands what that bronze and iron would mean for Avengard''s men to the west. This means lives, Scipio."


    "It''s destruction for destruction''s sake."


    "You''ll understand in time." He looked at me expectantly, but I said nothing. I looked away, resting my hand on a vaulting buttress that arced upwards towards the ceiling to support a primary capstone. The weight that that buttress supported through its capstone and the iron, bronze, and stone poured into it was much greater than the sum of its parts. Javis himself had taught me that, and now he was bringing it down. I sighed.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Come, walk with me," Javis said. "There''s something I''d like to show you."


    I didn''t answer him, but I nodded, and followed as he led me to the cathedral''s sacristy, and then to its cellars. "I don''t know if you''re a man of faith, Scipio, but I know that you''re a learned one. You may not have had the opportunity to attend a university or the coin to see a tutor, but you have the spirit and persistence of a scholar. You''ll take the learnings where you can find them, and so here''s another. Do you know why Avenor has His own cathedral?"


    I frowned. This felt cryptic. "Well, He''s Ascended. Avengard itself is named after Him. Why wouldn''t Avenor have one?"


    "Yes, He is Ascended, but only as a minor deity. A mortal rising through an immortal act. But many other men have accomplished such feats, and they don''t have their own cathedral. Nor their own town as a namesake."


    Javis led us deeper into the cellars. The air was cold and musky. I could smell stale incense, and I made doubly sure to feel ahead of me with every step I took, clawing out spiderwebs and ropes of dust before they caught onto my face.


    Here, there were no votives nor torches to light the way. He held his lit pipe to one candle, then another, and so it was lit just bright enough for me to make out Javis pushing aside one old wooden crate branded with the crest of Avenor. "Give me a hand with this one," he asked me, and so I did.


    The crate was heavy - as if it were filled with stone and mortar - but together, Javis and I managed to push the thing aside, revealing an intricate engraving on the stone wall behind it. I couldn''t quite make out what it said, but then Javis brought one of the candles he had lit up to the surface, and I could see that it was etchings of old elvish runes.


    "What does it say?" I asked. "Can you even read something like that?"


    "Even I''m not that old. But I asked Priest Seledor, and he told me a secret, which I''m now going to share with you. What this rune means will be our secret, young Scipio, as is the real reason why Priest Seledor asked me to advise the Laurel on their petty demolition job. Can you keep a secret, Scipio?"


    "Of course."


    Javis gave me the handle for me to hold, then emptied his pipe''s tabak onto the ground before slipping it back into his cloak. With his hands now free, he placed his hands on both sides of where the runes began and ended, cleared his throat, then in his low, gravelly voice said, "We serve Avenor, and Avenor serves the Lady. She sees and rules over all."


    The runes began to glow, and the simple etching and carvings on the stone emitted a bright purple light. I gasped. This wasn''t some sort of decoration; it was an enchantment. A ward of some sort. I knew that some wards watched over some fortresses and keeps in Fleur d''Lain, for one, but I had never seen one up close and in person.


    The etchings began to move, and the lines of light curved further and converged, until they created a circle, and within this circle, the stone and brick began to move until the wall had turned into an arch, and framed within that arch was a spiral staircase leading even deeper below the cellar.


    "Go on then, young Scipio."


    I held the candle ahead of me, watching my step as I descended down the spiral staircase, but soon, another source of light much stronger than my own little candlelight lit the way. There was a small chamber, slightly smaller even than some of the prayer rooms in the cathedral above below, and the perimeter of the room was lit by a gentle line of runic light surrounding the interior. At the center of the chamber were two statues, so lifelike and natural in its construction and composition, built out of a wispy, almost smokelike material I had never seen before. The edges of the statues moved, just like flame, but it was jetblack, emitting no light, and the room was frigid, as if a cave in the dead of winter.


    My eyes adjusted to the dim runic light of the chamber, and I could see the two figures more clearly. The first was a kneeling figure, and its identity was unmistakable. The wispy, shadow-like material not so dissimilar from that of flame, interweaved with casts and strips of bronze and iron. The figure knelt down to offer a dagger. This was Avenor Himself.


    The figure that He was offering His dagger to was much less clear to me. It looked to be a female figure, wearing a robe that obscured her face. She didn''t move to accept the dagger; instead, she stood upright, with her arms to her sides and with her palms open and facing Him. I searched her statue for any sign of who she might be, but it was difficult with the dim light and wispy material used to construct her constantly shifting and moving despite the lack of any moving air in the chamber. Then, on a sash she wore around her waist, I saw a crest, and I realized --


    "That''s the Lady of Loss," I whispered to myself, as Javis nodded.


    "That''s right."


    "Avenor served the Lady of Loss. She was Avenor''s patron, and gave Him the power and strength that He had used to fight. She''s who He died for and Ascended for..." I began to ramble. "That means Avenor died for an--"


    "Don''t say it," Javis stopped me. I was about to say that Avenor had died for an Exiled One, an outlawed god or goddess that we were forbidden to worship. "She holds less power outside with no church or supporters, but down here, I have a feeling that she may just be watching us."


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    Javis and I spent a good amount of time in that small altar chamber, dissecting and appreciating the masterwork that it was. Here, we speculated that the construction and masonry exceeded the sum total of the skill and ambition that had constructed the structure above us. If anything, the runes and the statues were obviously augmented by magick, and that alone served to make constructing something like that chamber way beyond even our wildest dreams.


    He explained to me that Priest Seledor had described the strange, wisp-like material used to act as the medium for the two statues as "shadowstone," an ancient material refined by followers of the Lady of Loss aeons ago, with the secrets behind its concoction lost to time. I don''t know if the shadowstone served any other purpose for the statues other than decoration, and neither did Javis. Neither he nor Priest Seledor had wanted to conduct any experiments on the material for fear of angering the Lady of Loss.


    Avengard, Javis explained to me, was a city of devout followers to the Lady of Loss, before it had been a city of Avenor. As times changed, so did the city, and the cathedral to the Lady of Loss became dedicated to Her follower -- Avenor.


    Eventually, we made our way back up to the cathedral, making sure to return the arch above back into a plain, etched stone wall and putting the crate back in its place as we did. As we took the stairs from the cellar back up to the sacristy, we could see the Laurel''s workers already beginning to move furniture and dismantle ornaments. Some old men brought in wagons and carts of picks and hammers. The demolition of the Cathedral of Avengard had begun.


    Javis led me outside; we took our last look of the cathedral''s interior together. Some of the Laurel''s minor masons -- men that should have been retired and enjoying their last years of life rather than breaking down cathedrals -- asked him for his signal to began picking away at the edifice''s points of foundation. Javis asked them for a second before they began.


    "It''s a beautiful cathedral," Javis mumbled, half to me, and half perhaps to himself. "Understated, but beautiful in its simplicity."


    I thought of the bronze used masterfully to accommodate more weight with less space, and the buttresses that fearlessly flew over the pulpit and held the capstones that held the entire structure together. More than that, I thought of the dark secret that the cathedral held in its foundation, and the works of bronze and shadowstone that the cathedral held in its foundation.


    "It''s beautiful," I agreed with him, as he gave the men the signal to begin. As supports for the capstone feel, larger and larger sections of the cathedral''s walls began to fall onto the areas where Javis had marked for them to fall.


    "There''s no going back now," Javis said. "This will be no more by tomorrow."


    "That''s no matter," I mused. A thoughtful glint flashed in my eyes. "One day, I''ll build my own."

 [2] Just a Finger of Silverleaf

    Chapter Two


    Just a Finger of Silverleaf


    And so my days in Avengard continued even after the last brick was dismantled from the cathedral, and the lingering dust and rubble coated the air in its surroundings, enveloping the refugee encampment where I stayed with my mother and sister in particulate. We worked past the coughing fits, of course, and in one way or another fell into a routine of struggle and survival in a land leagues away from our home.


    It would be unfair to claim that Avengard was cruel to us. They allowed us in, as with all of the other refugees from regions across, which is more than what could be said for many other cities and states that had not been completely consumed by conflict and the war. No, at worst, they were apathetic, and that was perhaps all we could ask for. The refugees and my own family were not treated like citizens, but still, we could find gaps in society where we could earn our keep.


    Javis, for all his skill in mathematics and design, went to work with the city watch and Avengard¡¯s own sappers, performing emergency maintenance on the city¡¯s ramparts and walls. My sister, Isidora, had some experience with herbalism and care. She would assist some sicksisters at a temple to Avenor, after having been turned away by some of the herbalists who thought of themselves as some form of recluse, or perhaps urban hermits.


    I found some modest opportunity for myself with the city guilds of stonemasons and carpenters. With many fighting age citizens of Avengard off on the frontlines, there was still demand for homes to be built and roofs to be thatched, and with my ambition to build something of my own that could I be proud of, I took great pleasure in assisting the older men of the guild where I could.


    They were skeptical at first, as different as I was. With my red-tinted brown skin and straight hair, I stood out from their pale complexion and curly locks, and naturally, they treated me with a generous amount of skepticism and doubt, but that too soon enough fell away with another roof, another wall, another foundation filled and properly mortared. They took me in, and in turn, I learned more about their way of life and their philosophy of work ethic.


    The men, all in their fortieth year or more, and also on their second wife or more, taught me that Avenor had preached that only the sweat of a man¡¯s brow could be a proclamation of love. Hard labor and sacrifice, they emphasized, were manifestations of passion, just like how Avenor had devoted himself to serving the land and the people. It seemed that work and success were what passed as morality to the local people, and I bit my tongue and accepted them as they were. I refrained from protesting and arguing that love itself was love, and not weeks or months spent away from family. I refrained from revealing the secret perversions that Avenor had lowered himself to, or how he had devoted himself not to the people, but to the wicked Lady of Loss. I refrained from confessing my love for creation, rather than for labor.


    Despite my own internal disagreements with the Avengard faithful, however, I learned what I could. I picked up the pieces of the culture that I agreed with and wanted to embody, and carefully considered and discerned the pieces which I disagreed with.


    In time, however, my mother then grew sick with the krankenflux. Chronic coughing, phlegm marked with blood, and a terrible dryness of the throat. I figured that it must have been from old age and the travel and the toll it had taken on her body. At that time, it must have been almost three years since we left home, and just under a year since dad had passed.


    There wasn¡¯t much either of us could do.


    My sister did her best to take care of her. In another life, she might have been a healer, or a sicksister. In that life, probably, we both would have found mentors to apprentice under¡­but then again, I suppose I did have Javis to learn from. My sister had nobody but the busy sicksisters at the temple, and the elderly women in whichever refuge we found ourselves in, but still, she managed.


    ¡°I can forage for the ginger and the honey for her myself, but we¡¯ll also need a few fingers of silverleaf herb, and that needs to be bought,¡± she instructed me. She had barely left the little encampment of tents that we and the other refugees had set up against the Avengard walls on the outskirts of town. ¡°We¡¯re far too west for it to be growing in the wild, even here by the Black Forest.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have any coin left,¡± I pointed out in a whisper, though I had a feeling she knew that already.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be asking you for help if all I needed was a simple trip to the herbalist,¡± she answered as she tied her hair up in a bun. Mom was coughing out blood again, and my sister wet another old cloth to clean her lips. The tent smelled metallic from how much blood she had been spitting out; I felt sorry for the both of them.


    ¡°Of course. Thanks for taking care of mom, Isidora.¡±


    She averted her gaze from my eyes, nodded, and held her hand to mom¡¯s forehead, and then she cupped her ears and whispered to me in a low, grave voice, ¡°She has gotten much worse over the past night. If we don¡¯t find silverleaf for her by tomorrow, she won¡¯t last more than three days.¡±


    I set off to the town to find work at the usual spots, but with the war raging further now, the landscape of all of Avengard had changed.


    The Stonemason¡¯s Guild of Avengard had emptied out; all the able-bodied men and women were defending Avengard and its people either here on the walls or at the keeps and star fortresses to the east, hoping to keep the fighting and bloodshed away from the city. The less able-bodied were serving to construct more barricades and ramparts with allies across the continent. After all, these were the same men who shared the guild with those who had built the Cathedral of Avenor, cast in both stone and bronze. Speak not, however, of how these were the same men from the town that had brought it down, of course.


    As far as it goes for towns to have been forced to take refuge in, in retrospect, I suppose Avengard was good to me as a younger lad. There was much for me to learn. Though, as it was becoming more and more apparent, not very much for me to work on and earn money from.


    Next, I tried the market. It was at the town square, surrounding the Fountain of Avenor. This was a marvel of bronze that would be taken for the war effort last, I figured. The fountain was a marble statue of Avenor himself carrying a replica of his bronze mace, standing triumphantly on the ship he had sailed with east to Damasko underfoot. This was a matter of pride for the city, I suppose, and offered much less yield in terms of bronze than the cathedral had. If this statue were to fall, then Avengard would be truly lost.


    Most of the stalls here were permanent fixtures, and were built of brick and stone rather than lumber and timber, like in Listerbury or Fleur d¡¯Lain. Over the past few weeks, I had been able to make a small bit of coin here or there by offering to round out the edge, or work in a simple cabinet for them to use to store wares overnight. I approached the shoe cobbler Klaus Ziegler, and Rudolf M¨¹ller with his stall filled with kegs of beer and ale, and even Otto Drai Gerber and his leather goods, but none needed my help that weekend.


    Or rather, none could afford any help at all.


    The Laurelsroad leading in and out of Avengard, they explained, were dangerous, and mercantile travel was not flowing in and out of the region of Jatta as it was months prior.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report itA lot of reasons why ¡ª men of the Laurel of Avengard were being sent to the front, for one, and in their absence, bandits and thieves reveled on the caravans and wagons. Less merchants, too, were receiving the wares they had paid coin for months and years in advance; the ports and harbours in Helstendam and Listerbury had essentially run dry. Shipbuilders, too, turned their attention to behemoths of war rather than coin.


    But most of all, they explained to me, men were similar wary of traveling on the road these days.


    There were Seviskian dragons afoot on Jattan soil.


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    There was no coin for me to be found nor earned in the town square, in simpler words, but that wouldn¡¯t do for me because it wouldn¡¯t do for my mother. I persisted, and walked across the city of Avengard from shop to shop, home to home, offering everything from masonry to laundry. I worked my way from the District of Laurels of politicians and spiritual men, where Avenor himself had been born, down to the Geldenheim District with the traders and merchants, and then to the Schwarzahnn Roads, where only us refugees could be counted as poorer than they. But coin was tight for most everyone, however, and by sundown, I still had not found myself any closer to the coin needed for even a single finger of silverleaf from the apotheke.


    Desperate, I realized I only had one option left ¡ª the one thing which I hadn¡¯t tried, which was to ask the apotheke herself for work.


    I made my way back to Geldenheim as the sun was close to setting, and elderly men of the Laurel were crisscrossing the streets and dirt pathways to light gas lanterns with their flint and steel. There, I found Kirshka¡¯s Apotheke, a small shop that could have been mistaken as a hovel. No glass panes on its windows, only shutters; like many, she, too, could not afford fire-blown glass from Helstendam or Voxden.


    The door creaked as I entered the shop. I could smell her wares before I could see them ¡ª it was an attack on the senses. Sweet, tangy lines of citrus fruit and junipers. Dark, musky undertones of bayleaf and highsalt. And somehow, amongst all the others, the deep, earthy smoke of sulphur.


    Kirshka stood next to a cauldron, stirring in a powder I did not recognize into a brew that I had an even lesser chance of identifying. She was a disheveled old lady, easily beyond her fiftieth year, with a headscarf tying back her long, wiry gray hair. She turned to look at me, one eye much bigger than the other, and said, ¡°It¡¯s late, boy. Too late for paying customers, and much too late for refugees asking for hand-outs.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not asking for hand-outs,¡± I protested. Others in the camp would, but Isidora and I had always found some means to work and earn our coin ¡ª until today, at least. ¡°I¡¯ve never asked for charity. I¡¯m a worker of some amount of skill. An apprentice.¡±


    Her eyes flitted down to my hands, then back at me. ¡°Perhaps, but not an apprentice of herbalism nor the fruits of the earth. What are you, then? A carpenter? A shepherd¡¯s boy?¡±


    ¡°A mason,¡± I answered confidently.


    ¡°A dumb mason is what you are,¡± she said cruelly. ¡°Look around, boy, what do you see?¡± She gestured wildly at her hovel. The walls were lined with slipshod wooden shelves nailed unevenly ¡ª some sides with many more nails than the opposite end. The shutters were uneven, and creaked with small gusts of wind.


    ¡°I understand you might not be in the search for a mason, Dame Kirshka, but perhaps there may be some other way I could help you and your apotheke. All I ask for is three fingers of silverleaf.¡±


    ¡°Silverleaf!¡± She threw up one of her hands in the air, as if to emphasize her exasperation before returning to stir a another vial of liquid into her cauldron. ¡°Must be for a treatment of krankenflux, I suppose. It¡¯s silverleaf you want, but it is also silverleaf that you will not receive. That herb simply doesn¡¯t grow here in Jatta, boy, you haven¡¯t a chance.¡±


    I looked back at one of the wooden shelves mounted on the wall and craned my neck to read out one of the vials. ¡°No, but you have some. That bottle over there, it¡¯s labeled silverleaf, is it not?¡±


    She looked at me again, much more curious this time. ¡°So you can read, then¡­¡± she mumbled to herself. ¡°Very well. I can give you half a finger of silverleaf if you were to do something for me.¡±


    ¡°Half a finger?¡± I echoed her. ¡°No, I need at least a finger.¡±


    ¡°A finger, he says!¡±


    ¡°Yes. Just a finger of silverleaf. And I¡¯ll do whatever it is that you want,¡± I bargained with her.


    She narrowed her eyes at me, as if calculating what good I could possibly do for her, before she said, ¡°Very well, then. But only because it seems to have been completely impossible to find anyone else to do this for me the past few weeks.¡± She rested her ladle against the rim of her cauldron and procured a book from underneath one of her shelves. Then, she thumbed down the book until she found a particular page and, to my surprise, ripped the page out to hand it to me.


    ¡°That sheet of paper must have cost you some coin,¡± I mused, taking the page from her.


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing in this book I haven¡¯t already memorized, boy, it¡¯s no matter. It will do more use for me when you take that page and read out its instructions in the Black Forest once you¡¯ve tracked down the harvest I need.¡±


    I looked at the page she tore out for me; it detailed a herb called nightshade. It grew near Avengard, but only in the hills where children were taught not to play, for fear of wolves and other dangerous wildlife. The page itself showed two illustrations of what seemed to be the same herb; I found this curious until I read on. Nightshade, as it turned out, looked extremely similar to ordinary waldenberries. The instructions explained how to tell one from the other, and how consuming nightshade would be deadly for anyone within mere seconds¡­


    ¡°This herb you need is utter poison,¡± I said, disgusted. ¡°It¡¯s going to kill someone.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re going to kill your mother if you don¡¯t find your silverleaf, boy,¡± she said, her voice steady and serious this time. She was holding the vial of silverleaf in her hands now, her eyes fixed on me.


    ¡°How did you know about my mothe-¡°


    Before I could finish, she ushered me out of her hovel, ¡°Go. Now. The Lady is waiting for you.¡±


    ¡°But which Lady?¡± I asked her reflexively before she shut the door, leaving me on the street holding her torn out herbalist¡¯s page and with more questions than answers.


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    The sun had set by the time I made it to the edges of Black Forest, just outside of the city walls. This was not the best time to forage for herbs, but I had no time and, at the very least, I had the page to guide me to where I could best search for it ¡ª up the stream, and by a falkenbaum tree, if I could just chance upon one.


    I stopped by each falkenbaum, fingering the herb between my thumb and palm as the page had instructed, hoping for no juice to spill out, but each time I did, some purple liquid would emerge, meaning I had found waldenberry rather than nightshade. Still, I persisted, working with but the last rays of sun and the first beams of starlight.


    At some point, a howl echoed throughout the chill forest air, and the hair on my skin bristled and stood up. There was a reason why nobody else could be found in the city forest at night, but there was also a good reason for why I had to be there, so I continued. And as I continued, worries and anxieties and open questions shook about in my mind, like a child¡¯s loose toys in his parent¡¯s chest.


    How did Dame Kirshka know that silverleaf would be for my mother?


    What is she using nightshade for?


    And most curiously, what did she mean when she said the Lady was waiting for me?


    I knew that in some parts of the world, what she said would be used as a greeting for new guests and visitors, saying that the Lady of Creation would be waiting to receive them in their home. Was that what she meant? But she used it as a goodbye, and as I was leaving her home ¡ª and for the Black Forest, no less. This was neither home nor hearth associated with the Lady of Creation; this place was the realm of her sister, the Lady of Loss.


    The patroness, apparently, of Avenor Himself.


    Before I could sort further through the questions I kept for myself in my head, my eyes widened as I thumbed at another sprig of waldenberries ¡ª except these were no waldenberries, but nightshade. Each herb was dry on the inside, without the crimson juice of waldenberries.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got it,¡± I rejoiced, excited, to no one in particular but myself. From this small vine crawling out of the wet, uneven loam of the Black Forest, I pocketed as much as I could of the small violet herb, before I heard a shrill shriek out in the distance. It sounded like a woman, older, perhaps around the age of my mother.


    I rushed towards her, running faster than what I would have been comfortable with in the darkness of the Black Forest this late into the evening with only starlight to guide me. ¡°Hello?¡± I called out as I ran. ¡°Is there anyone out there?¡±


    ¡°Are you an Avengardian?¡± she called back. I was confused as to why she would ask that, but I was able to follow the sound of her voice to track her, resting against a large stone. And once I had reached her, she once again asked me, ¡°Are you an Avengardian?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I lied, perplexed as to why that should matter. ¡°Are you hurt?¡±


    ¡°I hurt my ankle running,¡± she explained. She raised her foot. On one leg she wore her boot, and on the other, she was barefoot, exposing a heavily swollen foot. She looked to be in great pain, fighting back tears from her eyes. She was sweating heavily as well, as if she had just been running for hours.


    ¡°What was it?¡± I asked. ¡°A dire wolf? A moonbear?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she answered. ¡°Seviskian men.¡±

 [3] The Smell of Sulphur

    Chapter Three


    The Smell of Sulphur


    ¡°They¡¯re here, then,¡± I muttered, the weight of knowing that Seviskian footmen are marching towards Avengard chilling my bones.


    ¡°Only some,¡± the woman said. ¡°I saw eight¡­maybe nine or ten. I don¡¯t know what they were doing in the Black Forest, but I¡¯m sure they were Seviskians. Their cloaks were red and crimson. I¡¯m sure.¡±


    ¡°Did they see you?¡±


    ¡°Yes, they did,¡± she stammered. ¡°I locked eyes with one of them from afar, and I started running. I must have been running for¡­so long.¡±


    ¡°What were you doing this late in the woods?¡± I asked her. It was odd to meet anyone else in the Black Forest, especially around the sun¡¯s fall.


    ¡°I was looking for herbs,¡± she explained. ¡°I was looking for nightshade. Not to use, but to trade with. I have a sick son, and it¡¯s the only way I could get the healing he needs.¡±


    My heart skipped a beat. She, too, was searching for the nightshade for Kirshka. But to what end? Why is she sending desperate people like us to search for her herbs in the Black Forest?


    More and more questions were crowding my mind, but the light was dwindling further and further, and we had to make our way out of the forest somehow.


    ¡°Can you walk?¡± I asked her, offering her an arm to hold onto as she tested her ankle. She grabbed onto it, then attempted a step and winced sharply in pain.


    ¡°Only barely,¡± she answered.


    I guided her with my arm as we made our way back towards Avengard at a glacial pace. Despite the lack of light, I knew that we could follow the stream. We listened carefully for the running water, found it, and carried on downstream as quietly and quickly as we could. Every few steps, neither of us could help but to look over our shoulders and scan our surroundings ¡ª the thin silhouettes of branches and leaves against the opaque darkness, the rocks and boulders jutting over crags and small hills ¡ª wary that men in crimson may spot us and take us prisoner. Or worse.


    ¡°Stop. Did you hear that?¡± I held her still, hoping to cease her rustling of small leaves and twigs underfoot so I could listen closely. I heard a cry of some sorts, from some animal or beast that I had never heard from before. It was a shrill, guttural cry from at least a few leagues away. Quite some distance. It must be massive. Larger than a bear.


    Again, the sound echoed throughout the night. It was low and rumbling, something in between a beast¡¯s roar mere steps before its prey and a clap of thunder during a mighty storm. It resonated with an ancient, primordial power that commanded all those who heard to stop and prostrate themselves before it. In the moments that followed, all I could hear were the echoes of that booming and the meek beats of my own heart.


    ¡°It can¡¯t be¡­¡± the woman¡¯s voice sounded as if she were mourning, as if she were already grieving. ¡°The tales of old were always formed in truth.¡±


    ¡°Dragons,¡± I whispered to myself.


    The woman and I were both then slammed into the cold, loamy ground as a gale of wind blew the tall falkenbaum trees down and us along with them. Dried leaves and specks of mud crashed into my face, and I just managed to roll over and see the purple night sky as I saw it fly overhead.


    It was a massive, shadowy figure with its wings outstretched from side-to-side. Each beat of its crimson, leathery wings sent ripples in both the Black Forest treeline and the clouds alongside it, giving me an even clearer look at the Seviskian behemoth in all its grotesque, mind-bending glory.


    Avengard¡¯s walls would stand no chance.


    My mother and Isidora would stand no chance.


    This beast was flying towards Avengard, and even from afar, its intent to kill, ravage, and massacre could not be mistaken.


    I caught my breath as I managed to find my bearings and get back to my feet. The mud and dirt had soaked into my sleeves, but I would be able to manage. The woman, however, was quite obviously even worse off. Her bad ankle had caught on a rock, and now her foot was hanging limp and unresponsive from her leg. It looked like it was a clean break.


    ¡°I can¡¯t feel it,¡± she said. ¡°I can¡¯t feel my foot at all.¡±


    The dragon roared overhead, ahead of us now, in between us and Avengard. And with its roar came the panic. I had to beat back the urge to empty my stomach, and I could feel my body begin to break out into a sweat despite the cool evening air.


    ¡°If I give you my arm, do you think you could manage to-¡°


    ¡°March on, scouts, Ignisclaw leads the way!¡± the unmistakable sound of human voices off in the distance interrupted me, along with the baying and howls of warhounds. It sounded like they were moving quick, and with the dogs, we would have little hope in hiding, even despite the cover of night.


    ¡°Can you move?¡± I asked her again, speaking quickly.


    ¡°No,¡± she responded. ¡°You can¡¯t leave me.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll need to run. They have hounds.¡±


    ¡°I have a sick son,¡± she begged. ¡°His name is Delmar, only a few years younger than yourself. He lives in a shack with others in the Schwarzahn. You need to find him.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll find him yourself,¡± I pleaded with her, trying to carry her up to her foot. She was hysterical, and she fell straight back down to the ground as I tried to prop her up.


    ¡°Please. I beg you. Tell him that I love him. Tell him that he¡¯s always been my shining light.¡±


    Another roar in the distance from Avengard now, and the boom of stone falling onto stone. We did not have much time now. If we were to wait, then there would be no more city left for us to return to.


    I felt a strange sensation in the pouch that I had tied to my built. The nightshade. I considered offering her a finger of the poison, just in case the Seviskians were to find her, but I thought against it. Avenor would hide her. Shield her, and keep her safe.


    And for whatever reason, I could smell the distinct scent of sulphur¡­


    ¡°I¡¯m going to run to the city and find my family,¡± I told her, choosing my words carefully. ¡°And in the morning, once all is well, I will find you, and our families will pray in gratitude together for the gods granting us another day.¡±


    She gave me a consolatory smile, forcing the curve on her lips and the friendliness on her wrinkled cheeks, but her tired eyes betrayed her. ¡°Find Delmar and tell him,¡± is all she managed to say.


    And at that, with my conscience weighing me down with every step, I turned away from her and began to run towards a burning Avengard.


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    Screams and the acrid smell of burning flesh.


    The gates were open. The Laurelswatch must have wanted to allow the people the opportunity to flee out of the walls whenever they could. They didn¡¯t know of the Seviskian men approaching the city walls. It wasn¡¯t an invasion party¡­but what sort of cruelty would the men in crimson be capable of committing with their boots on the ground?


    A tower collapsing. Straw roofs spreading dragonfire from home to home.


    Opaque, dark smoke stung my eyes and lined my lungs as I ran towards the refuge tents. I tore a strip of cloth from my own tunic and dunked it in a nearby well, and tied the damp linen over my nose and mouth as I ran. Others were not so resourceful. Sheer panic steered their actions, and they fled in every direction. In the middle of the crossroads of a dirt path, a young woman was lying down on the ground motionless. Perhaps lifeless.


    There was no time to help them. Just like there was no time to help that woman in the woods. Gods, I hadn¡¯t even the chance to ask for her name.


    Overhead, Ignisclaw spread its wings as it glided across the city, spewing molten stone onto Avengard. The sky was a brutal picture of red and black. The Laurelswatch took their stand on the rooftops. I could just make out the fear on their faces. These were middle-aged men, their sons long sent off to the line. In another time, they would have been together, enjoying the countryside. In another time, they would not have had to take their bows and nock their arrows at a flying beast they had no hope of felling.


    ¡°Steady on, men!¡± one of them, perhaps the oldest of them, rallied them on as he jammed a crank into his arbalest, loading another bolt onto the string. ¡°For your wives, for every child of Avengard!¡±


    I watched as they died.


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.Ignisclaw heaved its chest in a monumental breath, veins of glowing inferno lighting its breast, and out from its scaled maw came a flume of dragonfire which enveloped the man and his compatriots, melting the very stone and mortar of the roof they stood on. Their screams told of agony beyond any human comprehension, leather and cloth melting off skin melting off pure bone. I screamed in anguish when they no longer could. Their bodies were burnt black; the last semblance of color to give way was the shock and horror in their eyes.


    As the dragon flew on, two men survived the raging inferno, but found themselves trapped on the rooftop. A booming, thunderous crack erupted as wood and foundation stones gave way, and they fell downwards into rubble and flame.


    I shielded my face as debris and smoking dust bellowed onto the pathway, where the building once stood now leaving behind an incomprehensible mass of stone, destruction, and corpses. And still, I made my way to the refuge tents. I wanted to see my family. I wanted to hold their hands.


    A crowd of panicked citizens rounded the corner and stampeded towards me, presumably hoping to make their way to the gates. I braced myself as they pushed and jostled against me. I felt as if I were pushing back against the current of the Great Helsten River, and it took every bit of strength in my body to hold my footing and push on.


    ¡°Avenor preserve us!¡±


    ¡°My child! Have you seen my child?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m burning!¡±


    I elbowed my way through, falling to my hands and knees and scrambling back up to my feet, breaking into a sprint towards the tents. Each breath was scorching torture, enveloping my lungs in a rhapsody of pain and constriction. All I could feel was heat. All I could hear were screams.


    The world was on fire.


    Suddenly, large bolts of pure light erupted and arced towards the sky. At first I thought it was lightning, but even in that split second of pure energy being released, I realized that it was towards the sky rather than from it. And it was aimed at Ignisclaw. Something or someone else was fighting back.


    The giant scaled beast rolled in the air, jerking to the side as the bolt missed and fizzled into the air. It couldn''t have been far. It was a total feat of agility, as it must have been; the bolt raced towards the sky in an instant.


    Then, I spotted Avengard''s last defender. It was a small figure, as if it were a child, clad in gleaming white robes, similar to the clergymen in Fleur d''Lain and Listerbury. It raised a large wooden staff, almost certainly taller than the figure itself, and in a series of quick, deliberate movements drew runic symbols in the air, leaving little lines of light that hung and lingered in the air.


    And then the runes erupted, and the figure let loose another bolt of pure energy towards the beast, and the grass and stone and all color around her shifted to naught but black and white light, and this time, the bolt connected.


    Ignisclaw roared in rage and roared in pain and roared in hatred as the bolt seared into its leathery wing, scourging it and leaving a gaping hole through it, grounding the dragon, dropping it from the sky like a falling boulder from a mountainside. Ignisclaw crashed into a nearby building, spraying debris everywhere.


    In an instant, the figure slashed its staff across the air in a concise slice, and a barrier of magical energy swatted away pieces of stone and debris that had come hurting towards it.


    Then, I heard the figure speak. It was a feminine, mature voice, and that''s when I knew that this figure was no child; it was an elf.


    And she spoke as if she were the calm in the midst of a storm, "I am Nyx, and I have loved these lands that you now ravage." Her eyes began to glow in a holy white, and she began to hover slowly skywards, as if pushed upwards by a heavenly wind.


    Ignisclaw spread its torn wings and roared in defiance, "And you will burn with the rest of them! My flames burn all."


    Nyx hovered further skywards, her staff still in her hands and her form ethereal and glowing in a radiant light, and she rose higher still than the grounded Ignisclaw, and with unyielding resolve, her voice boomed and echoed louder than the destruction around her, "I am the guardian of these people, the protector of life. You bring forth fire. I bring the power of creation itself. And in your ashes, I will forge these lands anew."


    Ignisclaw roared again, and spreading its wings, leapt towards the skybound elf mage.


    Nyx persisted, unflinching, and continued, "Your wrath is but a moment. My love for creation is everlasting. And with it, I will break you."


    The dragon crashed into the elf''s magical barriers, sending plumes and columns of smoke ripping towards wall, roof, and home, and the pair of powers plummeted towards the ground in a wholly separate quarter of the city. Another boom like a clap of thunder roared throughout Avengard, and I was no longer certain if this were the scaled Seviskian beast, or the magicks of the mysterious elf that now acted as the protector of the city.


    What was certain was that regardless of which power held the winning edge, the city was no longer safe. Another building crumbled to the ground, just like the city''s cathedral a few weeks prior, and with it, I heard screams of pain and anguish.


    I pushed on to the encampment. Once I was there, I was relieved to see the tents still standing. The refugee area was quite modest in size, after all, and distanced some way from every other structure. It was a space of no importance and perhaps today that would be our only saving grace.


    Inside, I found my mother and Isidora, still there. My sister huddled over my mother, wild-eyed in shock and fear.


    ¡°You¡¯re here!¡± I yelled, my voice competing with the screams and crumbling debris from outside.


    ¡°Scipio!¡± my sister reached for me and gave me a tight, frantic embrace. ¡°Mom¡¯s health is fading. I tried to carry her away, but I couldn¡¯t. She¡¯s practically asleep at this point.¡±


    Despite the heated air around us, my mother¡¯s skin was cold and slick with sweat when I pressed my palm against her cheek. Her eyes were open, but she was not responsive. All she could manage was big, slow, heaving breaths. Each inhale was dry and painful.


    ¡°We need to move somewhere else,¡± I said. ¡°Somewhere safe.¡±


    ¡°But where?¡± Isidora asked.


    ¡°To where we always seek safety,¡± I answered. ¡°The cathedral.¡±


    Her eyes widened. ¡°No, Scip, we can¡¯t. It¡¯s all stone and rubble. They¡¯ve brought it down, don¡¯t you remember?¡±


    ¡°You need to trust me.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll die there.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you trust me?¡± I pleaded with her, as earnest as I could. I gave her a look that poured in all of the yearning and desperation that I could muster. In exchange, she gave me one of a reluctant acceptance.


    ¡°Fine. But we need to carry Ma.¡±


    We worked together to turn her cot into a stretcher, breaking off the legs that would act as further weight once we carried both our mother and the wooden cot together. It was difficult for me; I imagine it was leagues more difficult for my sister, who had weighed at least four stone lighter than me. The look on her face was pained as she heaved her side of the cot holding our mother upwards and brought her out into the streets.


    Outside, there was no respite. The air was immensely hot and dry now. Every breath another roiling coal. My sister managed her first glimpse of Ignisclaw overhead and she swore, but I couldn¡¯t hear her. All I could focus on was the weight of the cot and our mother that we bore on our arms.


    We hurried as much as we could. Much of the crowd had already dispersed out of the center of the city and towards the outer ring; this was all the better for us. We pushed on through a labyrinth of side streets and pathways blocked by rubble, and fire, and the dead, until we found ourselves ruins that had been ruined long before the dragon reached Avengard.


    ¡°Now what, Scip? It¡¯s all gone!¡± Isidora gestured towards the rubble and loose stone scattered across where the foundations of the cathedral had been.


    ¡°Lay her down for just a second,¡± I grunted. ¡°You have to trust me! We¡¯re looking for a staircase,¡± I yelled and set off wildly uncovering stone after stone, tossing them aside as far as I could.


    My sister paused, wild-eyed, as if I had just gone mad. Then she gave our mother a small sip of water from her waterskin, before joining me amidst the stone and rubble. We were rummaging and crawling through the ruins for an unsettlingly long amount of time, all the while with Ignisclaw flying overhead, before I heard my sister scream, ¡°A staircase! But to where?¡±


    I didn¡¯t dare to spare a moment to explain what to expect for my sister or mother. Instead, I heaved the cot towards the stairs, and my sister helped. Underneath, as expected of Javis, the cellars were untouched by the men who had torn down the pillars and fixtures overhead. Curiously, however, the torches were lit. Someone had been here.


    The large crate by the wall was moved off to the side as well, revealing the runes etched onto the wall below. My sister asked me what it said, but still, I did not answer. I was racking my brain for the words Javis had used, the syllables at the very least, what it sounded like.


    Then, it came to me, out of nowhere, like a lightning bolt over a clear night sky.


    Along with the smell of sulphur¡­


    ¡°Do you smell sulphur?¡± I asked my sister.


    ¡°Sulphur? No, not at all. Scipio, why are we here?¡±


    I shook my head. Was I imagining that scent? Then, I cleared my throat, and spoke, "We serve Avenor, and Avenor serves the Lady. She sees and rules over all."


    The runes glowed with a luminescent bright purple light, and the stone and brick began to move, forming a perfect arch overhead. The cellar spiraled down deeper and deeper, and from the darkness, I could see the faint glow of more purple light.


    ¡°Who goes there?¡± A booming, gravelly voice called from down the stairs.


    ¡°Javis!¡± I called out. ¡°Help us bring our mother and her cot down the stairs, come on then!¡±


    At that, an older bearded man emerged from below the stairwell. ¡°Scipio!¡± he called in surprise, before hurrying to take Isidora¡¯s place in bringing the cot down below. Downstairs, the sculpture of Avenor and the Lady of Loss were pristine and untouched, and well-lit by the glowing purple runes surrounding us. Javis had been here, alone, and I wanted to question why he had brought no others down with him, at least into the cellars.


    ¡°Mother¡¯s fading fast,¡± Isidora called out, her palm on mother¡¯s forehead and face close to hers, straining her eyes to see in the low, dim light of the Lady¡¯s altar. ¡°Did you get the silverleaf?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I answered. The silverleaf. I hadn¡¯t been able to trade the sprigs of nightshade I had found with Dame Kirshka. I didn¡¯t even know if Dame Kirshka and her thatched straw hut and her silverleaf were even still standing, or if they were burning husks as with the rest of the city.


    Our mother began convulsing in pain, screaming and writhing and groaning. With every convulsion, I could feel some of her pain, as if it were my own, and I can only imagine that it must have been the same for my sister. We did what we could, along with Javis¡¯ help. We embraced her for warmth, massaged her shoulders and limbs, and gave her as much water as we could, but it was no use.


    ¡°The krankenflux,¡± my sister muttered. ¡°If it¡¯s as bad as it is now, then she¡¯ll be gone in a few days unless we gave her the silverleaf concoction now. But it has to be now. Right now. Otherwise, it¡¯ll be days of pain until she passes¡­¡±


    ¡°Is there nothing we can do?¡± I asked. I looked to Isidora. Then to Javis. Neither of them offered any answer.


    The smell of sulphur tinged the air¡­


    I started to rummage through my satchel, as Isidora began to weep silently, tears slowly rolling down her cheek. Overhead, muffled through ground and stone and brick, we heard a long booming sound, as if some other building or another were collapsing onto the ground. Probably burning. Probably embroiled in flame and smoke.


    Like sulphur¡­


    Out of my satchel, I retrieved a fistful of nightshade.


    My sister gasped. ¡°Scipio, why do you have that with you?¡± The look of her face was one of horror, but then one of consideration, and then one of relief.


    ¡°Do you agree?¡± I asked her. Javis looked away; this was not his decision to hold any weight on. Isidora, after another moment of discernment, nodded.


    ¡°Do it.¡±


    I bit down on my lip in forced concentration and focus as I willed my hand towards my convulsing mother¡¯s mouth, grasping the nightshade so tightly that my knuckles had gone white. I pressed it over her nose, then into her mouth, until no more sounds echoed throughout the altar other than my sister and I choking back our sobs and weeping.


    And then there was nobody else to accompany us in the world.


    And the smell of sulphur grew stronger.


    And the purple light of the Lady we were bathed in, for some reason, grew ever more luminescent.

 [4] You鈥檇 Save My Life

    Chapter Four


    You¡¯d Save My Life


    The following days in Avengard were rife with uncertainty; doubly so for Isidora and myself, who had to navigate those winds without the guidance of our mother. It was a twin tragedy for me. I mourned the loss of my mother, but at the same time, I was wracked with constant anxiety and shared grief with my sister. I found myself worrying for her at every hour, wondering if she would ever again be able to see life through the lens of anything but pain.


    Sometime over that fateful night, the red dragon Ignisclaw had pulled back from the skies over the city. It was awaited that a main occupying force of Seviskian men and cavalry would arrive at the walls unhindered, perhaps more of the men that I had seen in the Black Forest, but none arrived. They must have been scouts and not warriors. Not fighting men. And so with Ignisclaw out of the city, the survivors had nothing else to do but to regroup and to gather the dead.


    Perhaps it was the uncertainty, or the trauma, or the anxiety, or a boiling stew of emotions and feelings to be processed between the three, but strangely, I began experiencing night terrors in the middle of the night. I would be sound asleep, but then I''d wake up screaming, and sweating, and at one point, even having walked away from our tent in my sleep.


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    Not many words were shared during those days. There simply was not much to be said. Everybody in Avengard had lost something of precious value to them. Homes, loved ones, entire families. There was no use attempting to explain the pain felt by all. The words were simply not there.


    Men, women, and children shuffled throughout the streets blank-faced. For some, I imagine it must have been an exercise in stoicism, in suppressing the waves of emotion from reality as a mean to trudge on and rebuild. For others, it was clear that Ignisclaw had devastated more than just brick and mortar that night. He had broken their minds.


    One side-effect of the invasion had been that the lines between citizen and refugee had been dessicated to nothingness. With all that burned, the Avengardians no longer cared about men¡¯s papers or skin color. There was no more space for that level of cruelty to fester.


    Instead, minds were set on the frontline, and on Sevisk. The people questioned how the war effort must have been developing on the front if a dragon such as Ignisclaw had slipped past them and made their way past different city-states all the way to Avengard. They questioned if the men at the front were equipped with everything that they needed to win, or at the very least, to survive.


    On the fifth day after the attack, the Laurelsmeister saw it fit to call the survivors to the town square. He did not dare to pack the plaza with that many people in one space before then, but at that point, he had no other option but to address his constituents. Up to that point, the people were mostly docile, stewing in their own seas of grief and anguish. But there was only so much bread to go around, and not much separates a group of hungry from a raging mob.


    Isidora was hesitant to go, at first. She had been like many of the other people I had seen on the ruined streets of Avengard, silent on the outside and broken on the inside. She had run out of tears by that point, but I knew that this was only a physical limitation for her. Emotionally, she had much more grief to pour out from within herself and onto the world.


    When I explained that they would be giving out rations and wheatmeal at the square however, she finally agreed and chose to follow. I would have asked Javis as well, but I couldn¡¯t quite trust him the same way after I found him alone without any other survivors to shelter down in the shrine of the Lady of Loss.


    The Exiled Ones, of course, had always given me that shaky feeling of unease and uncertainty. Anxiety. Seeing the shrine to Lady of Loss and of Avenor kneeling to her all that time ago with Javis didn¡¯t do much to assuage the years of doctrine and culture that had been ingrained into me that not all gods were meant to be worshiped. Not all gods were meant to be trusted.


    Now, of course, Javis like myself had simply fled to that shrine out of desperation and fear. Isidora and I didn¡¯t bring any survivors with us down there either. But was it the same? We were carrying out mother at the time, for example. We had some sort of reasoning on some level. Why hadn¡¯t Javis brought anyone down there? Just having seen him bathed in the purple light of the Lady of Loss was unnerving.


    Almost unnerving as the sulphur that I noticed everywhere on that night. I noticed it in the forest, by the tents, and especially when I had brought out the nightshade. It didn¡¯t make any sense. I had asked Isidora many times over since that night over the following days, and still, she swears that she didn¡¯t smell the sulphur that I had been noticing. She ventured that it may have been from the flames engulfing the city, but that wouldn¡¯t have explained how I noticed it in the forest, nor all the way underground by the shrine.


    I had many questions, and not many answers.


    I hoped to find some at the town square. Or, at the very least, some bread. Isidora and I took our place in the ration line, and behind us, a boy who seemed to be about my age took his place. His father who had been accompanying bid him farewell, and said, ¡°¡­and after, I¡¯ll see you back at home. Stay safe now, son. Be strong, for your mother¡¯s soul.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡±


    I recognized the greeting as one from this region specifically. It meant that his mother had passed, or was at the very least lost. Everyone had lost something, but the look on his face cut deep into my heart and echoed my own pain. I chose to speak, and I said, ¡°They¡¯re both watching us over from the Aether now.¡±


    ¡°What was that?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Our mothers. We had lost ours as well. Sorry, I couldn¡¯t help but to overhear. I didn¡¯t mean to pry.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± he said, considering what to say, before choosing, ¡°Be strong then, for your mother¡¯s soul.¡±


    ¡°I will,¡± I answered. ¡°My name is Scipio Kalataunus, by the way. And this is my sister, Isidora.¡±


    ¡°Pleasure to meet you,¡± my sister chimed in, though her voice expressed no pleasure nor sign of any other emotion other than apathy.


    ¡°And you as well. I¡¯m Delmar,¡± he introduced himself.


    Delmar.


    ¡°His name is Delmar, only a few years younger than yourself. He lives in a shack with others in the Schwarzahn. You need to find him,¡± the lady in the forest had said, before I fled. Before I left her to die.


    There were two mothers I let pass that night.


    The smell of sulphur¡­


    I didn¡¯t say anything. The act of recognition took any words from my mouth. Hadn¡¯t that lady said that Delmar was sick? Yet here he stood, looking no worse off for wear than I.


    I pondered telling him about what happened to his mother last night, and how she had been caught off in the Black Forest while searching for herbs for him. But then I thought better for it, thinking of the guilt it would cause him¡­but in some way, instead, I bore the weight of the guilt. It was heavy and lingering, like a breath that my chest could not bear to exhale. It was a difficult situation; in another life, perhaps, one without war and without dragons, we could have been drells together. We could have been good friends.


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    ¡°They say that the Laurelsmeister will be moving the whole city away,¡± Delmar said, making conversation as we moved forward in line at a snowsnail¡¯s space. ¡°Like a caravan, bringing us all further and deeper west, away from the war, and away from Sevisk.¡±


    ¡°Is that what they¡¯ve been saying?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Yes. Just yesterday, the Laurel was seen outside the walls, and whole columns of wagons and carts had come. Pulled by real horses too, not donkeys or anything like that. He must be expecting to be bringing us all somewhere safe, then, bringing in that kind of labor.¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t seen horses in years,¡± I pondered. ¡°They¡¯ve all been whisked off to the lines, haven¡¯t they?¡±


    ¡°They have,¡± Delmar confirmed. ¡°Which shows that the Laurel must be getting real serious about the rebuilding effort. Avenor¡¯s grounds aren¡¯t as safe as they should be anymore.¡±


    ¡°But Avenor himself protects this soil,¡± Scipio brought up the teachings that the clergy had repeated from the parapets time and time again. This was doctrine that was drilled into everyone, whether Avengardian or visitor or refugee.


    ¡°I don¡¯t see his home standing watch, nor his mace over the square,¡± he murmured, referring to the cathedral and to his fountain respectively. I instinctively looked towards the center of the square. Indeed, his fountain and the sculpture of him with his mace were no longer there. In its place, a bronze ruin that looked of a consumed wax candle stood as a reminder of just how hot Seviskian dragonflames could burn.


    Eventually, we received the bread that was promised. It was stale, and cold, and had no cheese nor salt, but my sister, my newfound friend, and myself enjoyed it as any Laurelsman might enjoy a banquet. As we ate, we talked, and I saw more of myself in Delmar beyond our similar recent unfortunate losses. He spoke it with candor and wasn¡¯t afraid to speak the words that come to his tongue the same very second they arrived, and that was something I appreciated. Most Avengardians weren¡¯t that way with myself, or with my sister, or with Javis and the other refugees, but perhaps those imagined lines of difference had melted away along with the city.


    The Laurelsmeister then stepped to the makeshift platform of rubble and old wood that his men had built for today. He was accompanied by his Court Mage, an old, bearded man with a pointed hat, along with his Laurelsguard suited in heavy armour. Waves of hushes rippled throughout the crowd, and the Laurelmeister began orating. He spoke, first, of the brave men who had stood on the walls on the night that the dragon of Sevisk had attacked. He spoke of how Avenor Himself must have been guiding them and filling their hearts with bravery and courage as they fought, seemingly deliberately choosing not to mention word of the elven figure who I had seen fight off Ignisclaw.


    I couldn¡¯t help but wonder if the Lady of Loss guided Avenor as He saw to it that all those souls be returned to Her in death.


    Then, he spoke of all the Laurel was doing to aid the people in these ¡°difficult¡± times. He gestured towards the bread and rations, and the wells that he assigned men to guard and distribute equitably, and to the bolts of linens and fabric that he had sourced from neighboring city-states to act as makeshift roofs and tents to ensure that no Avengardian went nights without shelter.


    At that, small, scattered pockets of applause let themselves be heard gently, but not enthusiastically. This was a battered people. A broken people. But still, Delmar offered slow claps to my side, and so I followed suit.


    ¡°And now,¡± the Laurelmeister continued, ¡°I would like to make known an official proclamation of the Laurel. This is a royal decree, to be taken as if it came from the mouth of Avenor Himself.¡± As if on cue, Laurelsguard, dressed in shining plate armour and with wreaths of silver and gold intertwined resting on their ears, stood by the Laurelsmeister, facing the crowd, as if to protect him from them. They were imposing, tall figures, and most likely the only Avengardian men of fighting age still left in the city.


    To his side, the Court Mage cast an Incantation, and the men on the platform were surrounded by a translucent dome, bathed in a cerulean hue. He concentrated on the Incantation, and the Laurelmeister spoke on, this time, his voice amplified threefold and made all the clearer, ¡°It has now been made clear to us that the Empire of Sevisk is willing to fight an unjust war, one with unjust consequences. Our enemy is willing to forsake the lives of innocents. Of women and children. Of those who have done no wrong. And to prevent more lives from being taken by this regrettable reality, we, too, will have to stoop to measures that give me no pleasure so as to enact.¡±


    At this, the crowd grew visibly more agitated. Those that had lost so much over the past week seemed to regain some level of vigor, some level of indignation. What more did they have that could be taken? What more did they have that could be lost? What were the limits of human loss?


    Sulphur¡­


    ¡°It is a regrettable reality, but the reality nonetheless. Starting from today, it shall be an official proclamation of the Laurel that the call for war shall expand to include tributes from each family. Each tribute, including those families who had sent their own in the past, will put forth at least one young man or woman of Avengard from their fourteenth year and beyond. This proclamation includes as well all residents of the city, regardless of where they have been born.¡±


    We were going to war.


    The crowd erupted into a collective rampage and panic. Some chose to flee the town square, as if doing so would strike their obligation to the Laurel, while many chose to stay and make their voices be heard. The screaming and protesting drowned out what the Laurelmeister had to say, despite his Incantation-amplified voice, and many threw stones and pebbles towards the platforms, with each projectile deflected by the Court Mage¡¯s magicks. He looked to be straining himself now, and clutching a string of glowing beads for power. When that too faltered, he seemed to draw on energy from his surroundings for a moment, but then the protective dome lapsed, and the Laurelsguard themselves formed around the Meister in a circle, swatting away stone and pebble with their tower shields and protective plate.


    When the crowd grew more and more resolute in their determination to make their displeasure be heard, I chose to flee, urging Isidora and Delmar to follow me, which they did. We hurried along with many others, and over our shoulders, we could hear screams and the clang of stone on steel.


    We chose to stay together at the slums of the Schwarzahn. Isidora and I had no assurances of safety finding our way back to the refuge tents with the city the way that it was.


    ¡°And if we were to leave?¡± Dekmar suggested. ¡°What if we all simply left Avengard on foot tonight?¡±


    ¡°Impossible,¡± I disagreed. ¡°All of the talks of Laurelsmen strengthening the walls the past few days, increasing the watch and the lanterns. I don¡¯t think that was to dissuade another dragon. It was to keep the people in and watch those who left.¡±


    ¡°Besides, where else would there be to leave to?¡± Isidora argued. ¡°How many cities are left until we¡¯re being attacked by another Seviskian with nothing but the Eastern Sea to our back? Scipio and I, we¡¯ve spent our whole lives fleeing.¡±


    ¡°You talk as if you were going to be out there fighting yourself, drell,¡± Delmar said pointedly.


    ¡°I can contribute to Avengard with a mortar and pestle and a set of herbs better than you could with a spear,¡± Isidora practically spat at Delmar with an ounce of venom. At this, Delmar¡¯s eyes widened and he moved his shoulder by but an inch, and for a moment, I thought he would come to blows with her, but then he stood down. My sister smirked.


    ¡°So what are you going two going to do when the Laurelsmen come looking for us tomorrow, then? Choose to work with the Healers and Sicksisters at the front?¡± Delmar asked.


    ¡°No,¡± I said and placed my hand on my sister¡¯s shoulder. ¡°If you leave, then I will be of little use here in Avengard. But you¡­you could still do some good here. Heal the wounded and tend to the sick. There are so, so many who could use your help, even today.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t let you go off to the front so you can run and impale yourself onto the first Seviskian saif you meet.¡±


    ¡°No, I wouldn¡¯t want that either,¡± I clarified. ¡°I read the books, the one Javis had lent me about the history of masonry and engineering. Avengard has sappers. War engineers, constructing barricades, and forts, and machines of war. It¡¯s safer, and for the first year, I wouldn¡¯t even be on the lines. I would be in Avengard¡¯s War College. They share it with the Ironhold of Kreuzhain.¡±


    ¡°Is that an option?¡± Delmar asked. ¡°Can we do that?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but only for those with some experience in masonry,¡± I answered. ¡°Have you any?¡±


    ¡°Not a lick,¡± he replied, his gaze falling to the floor, forlorn. After a moment, he asked, ¡°Can you teach me?¡±


    ¡°Teach you masonry?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said. ¡°Just enough to lie and say that I served as an apprentice to Baldric Rockwell for some months before he passed away. He was a local mason here in Schwarzahn. They wouldn¡¯t know. I just need some small ideas and fancy words for nail and hammer, wouldn¡¯t that do?¡±


    That got a fair chuckle out of me.


    Delmar continued on, ¡°Please. You¡¯d save my life, drell.¡±


    And in saving his life, perhaps I would fulfill a promise that I thought I had broken to a dying woman.


    ¡°Of course,¡± I answered. ¡°I¡¯ll teach you all you need to know.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t leave me, Scip,¡± my sister interjected. ¡°If you leave me, I¡¯ll have nobody else.¡±


    ¡°This is the best way,¡± I explained. ¡°The best way to have both of us see to the end of this war alive. It¡¯s what Ma would have wanted. And you know what? At the end of it, perhaps I¡¯ll be a Master Mason, and you¡¯ll be a full Sicksister. And we¡¯ll both have our own place in the world. Something permanent, something real. Not a refuge tent or on the run.¡±


    Isidora considered my words, then nodded, and turned to Delmar and said, ¡°You learn those fancy words, Delmar, and you head to that College and keep my brother alive. You hear me?¡±


    ¡°I hear you.¡±

 [5] A Lance of the War College

    Chapter Five


    A Lance of the War College


    The goodbye I shared with Javis was short and clumsy, as many goodbyes are. He smoked a stick of tabak that he had procured somehow, most likely from the smoldering wreck of some Avengardian¡¯s home. I pondered if it was from someone who was a stranger to him or another of Javis¡¯ drells. Somehow, he always had a way of getting on someone¡¯s good side, and unfortunately, that was not a skill he had been able to teach me. I had to settle for the masonry and tinkering that he had taught me over the weeks in the tents.


    ¡°The next time I see you, you¡¯re going to be building something even bigger than the Cathedral of Avenor,¡± he had told me.


    ¡°No,¡± I answered him. ¡°I think a cathedral like that would suit my work just fine.¡±


    My goodbye with Isidora was much more complex. She had avoided me in the days leading up to my caravan taking off for the War College just on the outskirts of Kreuzhain, leagues and leagues away from Avenor. Leagues and leagues away from her. With Da having passed months ago during our escape from the war and with Ma freshly buried just outside the city walls, we were the only family that either of us had left. The only remnants of our past lives in Dalintaya.


    We had no-one and nothing else.


    ¡°You better build something that can fix everything and get us back home,¡± she told me.


    ¡°I¡¯ll die trying.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t say that!¡± she exclaimed, slapping me stiffly and squarely on the arm. ¡°That¡¯s not funny, you know. I don¡¯t know what I¡¯ll do if that happens. I don¡¯t even know how I¡¯d find out.¡±


    ¡°When the time comes, I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll be such an amazing healer that you¡¯d be able to Resurrect me, anyway.¡±


    ¡°Sure, when moonbears eat mashed wheat,¡± she said dryly. ¡°Here¡¯s something for you.¡± Isidora reached into her satchel and pulled out a pearl-inlaid ring attached to a simple chain string necklace.


    ¡°Dad¡¯s ring,¡± I murmured in surprise. I hadn¡¯t thought about what happened to it. In some way, I had assumed that it had lost during the escape, or maybe even used as payment for either of our parents¡¯ grave diggers. After all, it was a fairly pristine piece of jewelry, with the centerpiece having been pearled by our dad right off the shores back home.


    ¡°I¡¯ll keep Ma¡¯s ring. You keep Da¡¯s necklace. Sound good to you?¡±


    I nodded. Ma¡¯s ring had a pearl as well. They came from the same shellfish; Da said that it was good luck when he had pearled the shellfish that carried both, and that it was all the good luck he had needed in the world. I guess Isidora and I could really be using some of that fortune now.


    ¡°Then we¡¯ll put the rings together as soon as I come back a veteran and a Master Mason. Does that sound good?¡± I asked her.


    ¡°That does.¡±


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    Delmar, freshly triumphant from his trial of deceit and having just spun his tales of apprenticeship, joined me in sole wagon that led us towards the direction of Kreuzhain and the War College of Engineering.


    Inside, we only had two compatriots traveling with us - the daughter of the town¡¯s farrier, Maren, and a young littling named Ceecee who hailed from Helstendam. She was a sculptor primarily, but it seemed that even a small semblance towards masonry and engineering would be enough to be sent to the college rather than to the lines. This was all the better for young Ceecee, of course, as her height only brought her up to an average commonman¡¯s waist at best.


    We bid our goodbyes and waved to those we were leaving behind in Avengard as the wagonman urged the two mares forward with his leather straps. That would be the last glimpses of Javis and Isidora I would have for months at the very least, and the same could be said for Delmar and his elderly da.


    The four of us looked stony faced as our wagon trudged on. This wasn¡¯t my first time, funnily enough, traveling by carriage. My family¡¯s flight away from home in Dalintaya took us first to Listerborough, a small fishing and sailing village to the East, and then to Fleur d¡¯Lain by boat in hopes of Da finding work and bread there in the safety of the city¡¯s walls and the Lifetree¡¯s protection. Once it became apparent that the danger there was not from the war but from Fleur d¡¯Lain¡¯s own people and prejudices towards us, we hiked over to Avengard and with some luck, managed to hop on some farmer¡¯s carriages for some lengths on their way back to the farming settlements common around the city. They were usually feeling more generous and jovial, headed home after having sold off wheat and barley to Fleur d¡¯Lain merchants and warehouses, and were happy to allow us passage in the wagons where their harvests were once carried.


    On those carriages and caravans, the people were happier, and I understood why. The farmer would be acting as a wagonman with his wife or child usually seated next to him, and their pockets were lined with a fair amount of pay, and they were headed home with their bellies full of warm inn-cooked food. And what¡¯s more, they were fairly provided for. They had, at the very least, their wagon and a healthy horse or mare, and from my view, they had nothing much more to want from the world. They were content, and gratitude rather than want filled their chests.


    And from my perspective, sitting with my legs and arms poked by stray needles of hay and clumps of mud next to Da, Ma, and Isidora, worn and beaten by months and countless leagues of flight and travel away from home in Dalintaya, I knew that that was the simple sort of uncomplicated life that I wanted most. I knew I wanted to live somewhere peaceful, create something of my own on my own time, and simply live with a wagon, a horse, and my family.


    I daydreamed of the world my heart longed for, while my feet remained firmly rooted in the reality I found myself in.


    And, with as much subtlety as I could muster, I wept. Warm, small beads rolled down my cheek slowly, then more, then a stream as I sobbed and choked back further tears. I bit my lip and contorted my face, angrily holding some resolve towards a further burst of emotions. Maren slept and Ceecee pretended not to notice, gazing out the wagonpath, but Delmar placed a consoling hand on my back. I didn¡¯t say anything to him; instead I nodded, acknowledging him, but still, I wished he simply had pretended not to notice as well.


    But then Delmar began to weep as well. And with that, in some shape or form, I began to feel some genuine consolation.


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    Time passed, and our journey to the War College stretched from hours to days. Upon arriving at its hallowed granite and marble halls, days turned into weeks, then months, and before long, we became bona fide Lances of the War College.


    Six months had passed since our departure from Avengard.


    Life, in some form, had fallen into a sense of routine and balance. The first few weeks were the most difficult, of course. We weren¡¯t allowed many letters. Caravans in between Avengard and the War College were extremely rare, and we had just taken the most recent one. One possible route for letters would have been Avengard to Kreuzhain, and then a second, separate journey of a few hours from Kreuzhain to the War College, but no trips were being made on this route apart from resupplies and official trips sanctioned by the Provincial Kaiser.


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    My mind obsessed over speculating on what may have been happening in Avengard at the time. How my sister was doing during her time with the sicksisters, how the city¡¯s defenses were being raised to prevent another raid from the Empire of Sevisk. Would that even be possible? Could it be done?


    That was one driving motivation for Delmar and myself in our studies, of course. Everything we studied, every book we devoured, we did so that we could build just one more line of defense for the Free Cities to shield itself with against the Seviskian onslaught. Another theorem for structural integrity was going to be another life saved.


    Maren and Ceecee joined us in our pursuit of engineering excellence, in some shape or form. They didn¡¯t exactly have the same domain masonry knowledge that I had learned from Javis, or the same fervor that Delmar had poured his grief into, but they were good students on their own. Maren was adept in ironworks and forging robust and strong beams of metal for others to reinforce their creations with, while Ceecee¡¯s nimble hands were perfect for more intricate designs.


    Together, the four of us mostly kept to ourselves. There were other masons in training from Outer Free Cities like Avengard as well, some drafted and some volunteered, from the likes of Fleur d¡¯Lain, Helstendam, and Halle, but the vast, vast majority of masons were from Kreuzhain. At least a good eighty of them were Kreuzhainers, with at least a quarter of them being urban dwarves. Every Kreuzhainer was arrogant about their skill and talent in their own way, as if they were born in a forge, but the dwarves were a step beyond.


    Worst of them was a dwarven Kreuzhainer named Kazador Grimshatter. He was a stout, cruel sort of personality with a thick, brambly ginger beard and braids that were intertwined with golden trinkets so delicately designed that even Ceecee would stop to admire them as he passed. Kazador was a noble of the city, his father some sort of councilman or lord to Kreuzhain¡¯s fealty-sworn settlements. And he was oft to remind everyone of that fact without shame nor hesitation.


    It was no consolation as well that Kazador was, in all objectiveness, an expert in every field of engineering and masonry that we were to study at the War College. His sketches and models for Fortress Design and Siege Defense were remarkable, and he pushed the boundaries of what might be made possible with simple brick and mortar. Battlefield Structures and Tactical Engineering was like second nature to him, and Structural Mechanics and Loadbearing was intuitive for him, with every calculation that he wrote up accurate and true. Masonry and Magicks Integration was easy for him as well.


    But one matter did not come so easy to him. And that was the Alchemy of Explosive Compounds and Siegecraft. He seemed to think himself above the use of blackpowder for fueling cannons and rockets for one reason or another. His father, he had explained once, had taken over countless fortresses and sieges with trebuchets and contraptions of war, and the level of imprecision of a cannon was too impractical to be trusted versus siege weapons that could be calculated.


    He was right on some level, of course. Cannons introduced a wild degree of variance to the battlefield, we had learned, that not many generals were comfortable with. A cannon, they said, would just as likely harm your own men than it would your enemy¡¯s.


    Kazador listed countless battles where this had happened. The War of the Roses, where a lord had quelled rebelling militae against their Imperator. The naval battles between Helstendam and Highbury, where Helstendam¡¯s barb-harpoons seemed to find and ignite Highbury ships¡¯ blackpowder stores seemingly at will.


    But still¡­Kazador had a weakness. And the arrogance he savoured while looking down on foreigners, especially me, with my reddish-brown skin and with me never even having stepped foot within the city walls of Kreuzhain, propelled me to the levels of obsession on understanding Siegecraft and all of its alternative compounds.


    One night, under the magick-lit lamps of the College Library, I was studying, reading a tome on how Kreuzhain had built its walls to be impenetrable by trebuchet-lobbed boulders and projectiles, and I sketched how a smaller, more concentrated point placed on the right spot on its masonry might bypass that.


    A hand pulled at my shoulder, and I stood up, gasping sharply in surprise, almost knocking over an inkwell.


    Delmar blinked at me. ¡°Scip, you look like you haven¡¯t slept in days. You look horrible.¡±


    I took my seat again. ¡°That¡¯s not true. You¡¯re being dramatic.¡± I turned to the next page and dipped my quill into the inkwell. ¡°Besides, you¡¯ve been staying up later and later yourself, haven¡¯t you?¡±


    He took a seat next to me. ¡°Maybe, but I¡¯ve been taking care of myself still. You look like you¡¯ve been pushing your limits for a while now. Is there something wrong?¡±


    I rolled my eyes. ¡°Delmar, there are many things wrong, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    He sighed. ¡°Okay. I just thought I could help maybe, somehow.¡±


    ¡°Then don¡¯t disturb me when I work,¡± I snapped at him, hard.


    He gave me a look and stood up, and right when I thought he was about to leave me, he stopped and said, ¡°You didn¡¯t have to be so mean of heart, brother. Everyone is having a difficult time. We¡¯re all just trying to survive. You don¡¯t need to make things harder by being such an ass.¡±


    I took a deep breath and said, ¡°You¡¯re right. I¡¯m sorry.¡± After another moment, I continued, ¡°I just want to save lives, that¡¯s all. I still see Ignisclaw gliding over the damned night sky when I close my eyes for bed. I don¡¯t want that to happen again.¡±


    Delmar crouched down to have a closer look at the tome I was reading and my notes and protested, ¡°If that¡¯s true, then why are you reading on cannons? And siegecraft? That wouldn¡¯t have protected the city against Ignisclaw, and you know it.¡±


    ¡°It could stop the war.¡±


    ¡°You said you wanted to build cathedral spires, Scip. What you have in your hands is a machine to fell them.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have a choice now, do I?¡± I asked him, my voice tired and weary.


    Delmar looked at me, and I looked at him, and we held that gaze for a few moments before he raised his hands and looked away. He cleared his throat, took a similar tome from the stack next to me, and said, ¡°Have a good night then, Scipio.¡±


    ¡°Good night, Delmar.¡±


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    The morning after, we were scheduled for Fortress Design and Siege Defense at the main class hall, and already, I saw that Ceecee was being picked on by Kazador and some other Kreuzhainers. I considered intervening, but before I could do anything, our Professor had arrived. I probably would have made it worse anyway; I wasn¡¯t exactly known for having a way with words.


    We took our seats, and I found one free in between Ceecee and Delmar. ¡°Are you okay? What was that about?¡± I asked.


    ¡°I-It¡¯s nothing. Just the usual.¡± When I didn¡¯t say anything, Ceecee continued in her usual stammer, ¡°S-something about littling history.¡±


    ¡°What about it?¡±


    ¡°We littlings used to be closer to the dwarves. Like allies, or s-something like that. He was talking about some battle or what have you from long ago where some clan of littlings didn¡¯t show up, even though we said we would. Or something. I don¡¯t know. I¡¯ve was raised in Helstendam. I¡¯ve never been to any of the littling c-colonies.¡±


    ¡°Are there still many out there?¡± I asked, curious.


    ¡°No,¡± she curtly replied. ¡°It was safer for us to move to the Free Cities.¡±


    The Professor had the class settle down, picked up a red Helstencrisp apple, and he introduced a board from the backroom with a white sheet covered on it. With the contours of how the sheet would rise and fall over the board, it was apparent that this was a model of something, most likely some especially ingenious field fortress or stone citadel that he would lecture on.


    Finally, with some attempt at flourish and showmanship, the Professor unveiled the sheet, revealing a fairly crude construction of normal stone and pebble.


    ¡°This fortress does not exist anywhere in the world - yet. But someday it just might. For you see, this model was not created by myself as an imitation of a fortress by Fleur d¡¯Lain nor a siege gangway from Voxden. This model was created by a student, much like yourselves, as a speculative attempt at what a fortress may look like. If you were to be magicked and shrunk down to the size of a small mouse, I promise you that would be comfortable in this model. Each wall, each set of turrets is set to size, and you¡¯d be able to walk in between the walls, same as a soldier or guard patrolling a wall on the battlefield.


    ¡°But at the same time,¡± he continued, ¡°It is structurally sound.¡± He placed the model on the table right by the first row of students, and took a few steps back, taking a bite out of his apple. ¡°So, if you in your magicked mouse form were being besieged by say, a horde of invading foxes, with their trebuchets, with their catapults, with their horrible machines of war¡­¡± Instead of completing his thought, the Professor flung his bitten Helstencrisp apple straight at the model where it made direct contact on what would have been the model¡¯s gateward wall, and the apple bounced off harmlessly onto the floor.


    ¡°T-that was a waste of a good Helstencrisp,¡± Ceecee muttered under her breath.


    ¡°¡­It would be impenetrable to an enemy siege, just as is the mark of any invention borne out of Kreuzhain engineers and masons,¡± the Professor concluded. ¡°And I would to give you the opportunity to make one of your own. And if the joy and gift of learning weren¡¯t enough incentive for you to try, then I believe that I can help make things interesting.¡±


    The class perked up. The College was, after all, one with the express purpose of churning out as many quality master masons and engineers for the war effort as quickly as possible. Professors did not normally take time nor effort to devise ¡°incentives¡± and there simply wasn¡¯t many opportunities for fun excursions or distractions outside of straightforward class activities.


    ¡°Whoever makes the sturdiest model - a working, functional model, mind you, with walkways and calculations to prove that it would be able to support its own weight - that can withstand an assault from your peers¡­whoever builds that model, I have a pass waiting for them. And with this pass, you¡¯ll have a week¡¯s leave and permission to borrow one of the horses from the stables. And you¡¯d be able to visit home.¡±


    Visit home.


    I¡¯d be able to see how Isidora is doing, and share my learning journey so far with Javis, and enjoy some peace of mind that they¡¯re doing alright¡­


    I took a look at the model of war and siegecraft that the Professor was holding in his hands, and I thought to myself, I¡¯m going to build my own.

 [6] Ill Prove You Wrong

    Chapter Six


    I¡¯ll Prove You Wrong


    Maren, Delmar and I burned into the wee hours of the night by ourselves on one of the corner tables at the Library. The glow of a few other stacks and shelves across the Hall told me that some other groups and students were doing the same. A week¡¯s leave and a lent horse meant a lot after six months of isolation inside the College¡¯s walls. Although they did get quite a fair share of visitors, even the Kreuzhainers hadn¡¯t been able to visit home themselves in that time.


    ¡°I¡¯m as tired as a workhorse with a rusty boot, but I¡¯m not one to bail out first. This damned be harder than some fieldwork, but it¡¯s got its own rewards,¡± Maren muttered to herself as she lit another candle for us to study from. We were all taking our own routes to tackling the challenge; she was playing to her strengths, looking up cases on ironwork-reinforced battlements. I was keeping my options open, and hoping for divine inspiration to strike.


    ¡°That¡¯s one way to say it Maren, but you¡¯re definitely speaking some truth,¡± Delmar agreed with her. He was studying some more formulae for calculating loadbearing, hoping to frontload more stone and brick by the surface walls. ¡°Scip, could you help me out with this? What does this say exactly?¡±


    I hunched over the table to take a look at his tome. ¡°That says ¡®dynamic.¡¯ As in, dynamic loads.¡± Delmar gave me a humbled quizzical look, so I elaborated, ¡°You can¡¯t just make one calculation for the load to be carried by a capstone over one time. Things change. They¡¯re dynamic. Soldiers run from one part of the wall to another, a Helsten dokkalfar troll climbs onto some turret, the loads change. You need to account for that sort of thing.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Delmar said, his voice trailing off in a way that didn¡¯t inspire confidence. By any measure of success, he was struggling here in the College, though I suppose that was to be expected. He had no experience nor passion for building to draw from to serve as a source of strength with each lecture and each task. Maren, Ceecee and I have all never attended an actual academic setting either, but at the very least, we knew how to build something that could stand strong after a week or two. It was in our intuition.


    ¡°How in the world did you even get to reading so good in the first place, Scip?¡± Maren asked me, curious. Over the past few months, I had been helping them both through their tomes.


    ¡°I guess I sort of grew up with it. Reading in both Common and in Dalintayan, what we speak back home, at least. My Da, he used to dive in the open waters and find pearls, you see. But you can¡¯t eat pearls, so he¡¯d trade them with other fishermen, who¡¯d then trade them with merchants from Highbury and Listerborough who¡¯d come sailing into the isles on their ships. And whenever he had pearled enough to have something left over after all that, he¡¯d go to the merchants themselves and trade them for books.¡±


    "Puh," Delmar mumbled, the sound slipping from his mouth in casual surprise. ¡°If that were my Da, he¡¯d trade them for some salted meats to stockpile for the winter.¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t have winter back where I was from,¡± I clarified. ¡°And, well, my Da said the books would pay for themselves eventually. They¡¯re helping now, aren¡¯t they?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, don¡¯t listen to Delmar, he¡¯s just being a right sourpuss,¡± Maren waved away. ¡°What kind of books did your Da buy with those pearls he found?¡±


    ¡°Any kind, to be honest. He didn¡¯t read himself, so he¡¯d take anything that he could trade a pearl for.¡± I flipped a page on my tome. ¡°My favorite was this one book of maps he had gotten. I always wondered how that ship made it back to Listerborough without it. Suppose they had some spare.¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± Delmar said. ¡°It¡¯s getting late. Should we head off to bed?¡±


    ¡°You two can go ahead. I¡¯ll stay here,¡± I answered.


    ¡°Scip, you¡¯re going to run yourself into the ground the way you¡¯re headed,¡± Maren pointed out. ¡°Take some rest and you can get back to it in the morning.¡±


    I raised my hands in protest and echoed her words, ¡°I¡¯m never one to bail out first.¡±


    Maren rolled her eyes. ¡°Now you¡¯re just showing off, you know that? You¡¯d be loads more productive with some warm bread a morning after a warm bed.¡±


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    ¡°Just one more tome,¡± I answered flatly, and that ended discussions there. The Avengardian boy and the Helsten girl lingered for another second before deciding that there was no arguing with me, and they took their leave to the dormitories.


    I did not enjoy the solitude for long, however. As I poured through another tome, this one on the intertwining of weight relief magic on foundation stones, I was soon approached by a dwarf with a thick ginger beard and golden baubles in his braids.


    ¡°They say sheepherders rise early for the morning harvest,¡± Kazador said. ¡°I see this one¡¯s taken to reaping chaff by lanternlight.¡±


    ¡°Kazador,¡± I replied, acknowledging the dwarf but not his comment. ¡°I understand you¡¯re wanting for friends, but I¡¯m afraid that I¡¯m not exactly available for you.¡±


    ¡°Quatsch,¡± he answered in dwarvish, in a tone that told me that he didn¡¯t exactly agree with what I had just said to him. ¡°I¡¯ve got plenty friends, yes, and a drop of blood from any of them would be worth more gold than what you¡¯ve seen in your whole lifetime.¡±


    ¡°Okay, that¡¯s great to hear then,¡± I answered, the conversation turning a bit too rich for my taste. Opting to switch over to another topic, I asked, ¡°You¡¯ve had plenty of them visit over the past few months. Have you heard of any news from the front?¡±


    The expression on his gaunt and hardy face shifted to a more contemplative look, or about as contemplative as Kazador could handle. But still, this was a topic that each and every student of the College respected, and he acquiesced to my curiosity and grumbled, ¡°The entire continent of Jatta trembles under the weight of this war.¡±


    When I said nothing in reply, he elaborated further based off what his visitors from Kreuzhain had informed him, ¡°The Emir of Sevisk has dug his claws into the City of Roses. The Crown Princes have all of their heads resting in baskets, so I¡¯m told. And so more of the Emir¡¯s Chosen are beating down the gates to Fleur d¡¯Lain. Soulgnasher, Deadraiser - both of them taken arms to the Eternal Oak. If those Seviskian cowards raze that damned tree, then the whole city falls with it. Mark my words.¡±


    ¡°And what of the war to the south?¡± I asked. I was inquiring about Helstendam, an important canal city that separated Sevisk from the Mittelsea; and with it, Kreuzhain, Avengard, and the dwarven mountain stronghold of Duar D¡¯aldin.


    ¡°The war there is beginning to hold shape,¡± he said, and my heart dropped. If Helsten falls, then the Emir has his way to landing massive armies on Western Jattan soil. And with that, the raids on Avengard would turn to occupying forces. ¡°Two of the Emir¡¯s Chosen are raiding Helsten villages. The ones they call Widowmaker and Dreamstealer. The city itself would then be next, I believe.¡±


    If Helstendam holds, then the only way the Emir could land an invading force onto Avengardian soil would be a long, arduous journey around the northern tip spanning the Voxden mountain ranges, through the Ocean of the Great Beyond, before finally landing on the Black Forest itself. If Helstendam holds, then Avengard could stand a chance.


    If Helstendam falls, then anything is possible on Jattan soil.


    ¡°I appreciate the news you¡¯ve shared with me, Kazador,¡± I thanked the dwarf.


    But then, the look on his face seemed to revert back, and he said, ¡°So you understand the scale of this war then, you do? And you understand why the war might be better off if I snapped your neck in your sleep tonight, along with the other sheepherders from Avengard?¡±


    The thought of Kazador looming over my dormitory bed at night sickened me and instantly formed a pit in my stomach. I grimaced, and my blood began to boil. This was not the first time Kazador threatened to take one of our lives.


    The ginger dwarf continued, ¡°You lot can barely read a damned rune on a page, you can. Look at how long you take to get through a single tome. And the brown haired one, he can barely calculate the coin he¡¯d need at a meatmarket, what more can he handle with the weight of a battlement or the trajectory of a siege engine?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re all trying our best, dwarf, what more could you be wanting for?¡±


    ¡°You four out of the College, that¡¯s what would be best,¡± he grumbled spitefully under his thick beard. ¡°One little error in a calculation from one of you sheepherders and maybe a wall collapses on a forgeband of dwarven ironwielders. A small oversight and a sling snaps off a trebuchet¡¯s counterweight and fells a whole pavilion of Kreuzhain¡¯s proudest. Do not, manling, force me to imagine what would happen if one of you sheepherder¡¯s committed a big mistake. None of you are engineers. None of you ever will be.¡±


    I held my tongue, lost for words. Because as arrogant and belligerent as he was, Kazador had a point. We were being handed an absurd amount of responsibility for having only served a few months at what was essentially a training school out in the woods. Delmar, after all, had just lied his way in - with my help. What right did we hold to act as Engineers for the war effort? What privilege did we earn in being called Lances of the War College?


    Meanwhile, scores and scores of other men and women were drafted as footsoldiers and infantry and shieldmen. Scores and scores of other people had already probably died, just six months after we had all been together before the Laurelsmeister announcing the draft.


    ¡°I¡¯ll prove you wrong, dwarf,¡± I answered him feebly, with a crestfallen voice, the timbre of my words shaking with each syllable. Even I didn¡¯t believe myself at that time.


    Kazador bellowed a deep, taunting chortle. He spat on the floor next to me, and the pungent odour of tar-black tabak hit my nostrils. ¡°I wish you would, sheepherder. Less dead dwarves out there if you did. But I suppose some dead sheepherders would accomplish the same thing.¡± He turned his back to me, and before I could think of anything to say to him, he had been gone.

 [7] A Very Noble Act It Is, Then

    Chapter Seven


    A Very Noble Act It Is, Then


    Kazador built the strongest model for the Professor¡¯s challenge, and it wasn¡¯t even close. His model was sturdy, accurate, and may as well have been enchanted by a whole team of dwarven runecrafters. It withstood the mighty assault of an apple, then a rock, then the Professor himself giving it a solid whack with a chisel. Even if I had a hundred days to attempt to achieve that level of success with a model, I don¡¯t believe I would have succeeded.


    And I¡¯d like to think that I have plenty of belief in myself, in general.


    I tried my best to calm my emotions as his model withstood assault after assault, after my own had barely managed to scrape by with just the apple. I really, really did. Still, an ugly mixture of envy, of insecurity, of injustice bubbled up to my head like a hag from its bog.


    After all, Kazador¡¯s friends and family seemed to have no trouble making the trip themselves from Kreuzhain to the War College to visit him. Over the last week alone, he had already met with some ginger dwarves with similar golden baubles as he at least twice. His clan, in all likelihood, owned a whole stable of horses, ponies, and riding goats, same as any other proud dwarvish clan. What use would he have with the prize of a week¡¯s leave to Kreuzhain and a borrowed horse?


    And who in the world could conscientiously argue that this prize would be better off to Kazador, the spoiled son of a rich and greedy noble, more than I? I, who has not seen Isidora nor Javis in six months? Who has not even received word nor letter about them while pouring myself into sleepless nights and toilful days to a war effort I was meant to run away from?


    Kazador had stolen that piece of the world from me.


    And worse off, he threatened to take more from Delmar.


    Delmar¡¯s model was, in all meanings of the phrase, an absolute travesty. There was no denying it. It had crumbled and broke apart before the model was even placed on the platform by the front of the class hall, and so once it had arrived to the Professor, it looked little different than a small pile of rocks that a child or toddler might play with in the dirt. The Professor spared no shame in pointing out this comparison, which was then emphasized by Kazador himself with his own snide, arrogant remarks. Instead of testing the model¡¯s structural integrity with an apple, he had simple exhaled lightly on a teetering pebble that may have once been an arch¡¯s capstone, and it had fallen to the floor.


    It was a humiliation. Delmar must have been a stronger man than me, because if I were in his place, I would have run away from the college and deserted the war effort, even if it meant being Marked for Death as a traitor to the Union of Free Cities. And that¡¯s a bold statement; deserters who have been Marked do not normally die by any ordinary means.


    The Professor, however, had given the class as well as Delmar a possibility for redemption. It was another challenge. He didn¡¯t mention any week¡¯s leave nor borrowed horse, but this time, I simply wanted to create something strong and sturdy and useful to the world just to show everyone, Kazador included, that I could.


    It was no towering cathedral. No spires nor pensive statues of brass and marble. But it was all that I could offer to the world, and so it was an opportunity that I had to seize.


    This challenge, the Professor explained, would be an open-ended one. A test of both ingenuity and of precision. Creativity and calculation. It could be anything under the different disciplines of the War College of Engineering. The only rule, he stressed, was that he wanted to see something special. As to what ¡®special¡¯ encompassed, however, he did not elaborate. I asked Ceecee what she thought the Professor may have meant, but she answered, ¡°W-well, if we have to ask, I guess that means we probably don¡¯t qualify. So just do your b-best and hope that it¡¯s special, I guess.¡±


    ¡°Do you have anything in mind, then, for what ¡®special¡¯ thing you can craft and build for the Professor?¡± I asked her.


    ¡°N-not yet,¡± she admitted shakily. ¡°Maybe something with projectiles. I know they need more i-intricate work, and I¡¯ve been pretty good with that sort of thing so far.¡±


    ¡°Projectiles, huh?¡± I echoed her, considering the idea. ¡°Like cannons? Those are pretty dangerous, could lose you some fingers.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve carved out men and women from m-marble before, so I think I can handle blackpowder just fine.¡±


    ¡°Or maybe you can make a smaller version,¡± I ventured. ¡°For littlings to use.¡±


    Ceecee paused, considering the thought. I did as well. I had meant it in jest, but under second inspection, it didn¡¯t seem like so terrible an idea. A smaller cannon with a similar payload of blackpower and cast-iron shot could have its own uses on the field. Perhaps artillery teams wouldn¡¯t need five different mean to handle, aim, and load a full-sized cannon.


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    She then said, ¡°That¡¯s an interesting idea, Scip, but the b-blackpowder wouldn¡¯t be able to handle working in a smaller barrel. It¡¯s an idea that might b-blow up in your face,¡± she pointed out, smirking, very obviously content with the obvious pun that she had committed to.


    ¡°You have a point, Ceecee. You have a point. But if it were easy, it wouldn¡¯t be special¡­¡± my voice trailed off.


    As the class began breaking apart to head out of the hallway, I caught Delmar by the shoulder. He had just had a conversation with Kazador that I assumed was not all that pleasant, judging by how the Avengardian wore a heavy, pained expression on his face, as if the weight of the world were pressing down on his soul.


    ¡°What do you want, Scip?¡± he asked me accusingly before I even had the chance to speak a word.


    ¡°Only to offer you some help, Delmar, nothing more,¡± I answered with my hands up and palms facing him, hoping to offer him some consolation or assurance after the humiliation that he had just been subjected to. ¡°I saw you talking to Kazador just now. That can¡¯t have been good.¡±


    ¡°You speak truth,¡± he confirmed plainly. ¡°But perhaps Kazador did as well. After all, he seems to know what he¡¯s doing. I certainly don¡¯t.¡±


    I sighed. We talked as we walked to the college¡¯s feasting hall. The gravel-reinforced walls of sandstone did not do much to keep the cold out, and as we walked, I could have sworn that I felt the chill of the world grow colder and colder. ¡°You know, Kazador¡­I understand that he was a dwarvish noble of Kreuzhain, with lineage probably arcing all the way back to some mountain king in Duar D¡¯aldin, or Duar Four Forges, or Duar-Who-Gives-a-Rat¡¯s-Damn. I understand, as he has been so kind to enlighten us, that he had been taught and drilled by tutors and master masons ever since he grew the first damned strand of hair on his burning bush of a chin. He may as well have been born on a master mason¡¯s worktable. But still, that does not explain to me how he could have built, with his own very hands, that indomitable masterpiece of a miniature fortress he called a model earlier. Don¡¯t you agree?¡±


    Delmar gave me a weird look. We arrived at the feasting hall. ¡°I didn¡¯t realize that I had been friends with such a passionate fan of that arrogant Kreuzhainer, Scipio. My mother would be ashamed. She told me to pick those I spend my time with wisely.¡±


    ¡°You misunderstand me, Messr Delmar,¡± I protested with faux formality. ¡°What I am attempting to point out is that perhaps it might benefit us to¡­take a peek at some of Kazador¡¯s notes. His journals, his prints. As rich as he is, he is still but a Lance of the War College, same as us, humble as we are. And do you know what that means?¡±


    Delmar raised an eyebrow. We both grabbed our wooden plates. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°That means that same as us, all of his belongings are crammed into the same wooden chest. The same wooden chest with the same copper lock.¡±


    Delmar was beginning to catch on to my meaning. ¡°In Avengard, some of the wealthy from the District of Geldenheim had warned us that refugees were thieves, Scipio, but I had never believed them.¡± He was smiling, obviously hoping to get a rise out of me.


    ¡°Delmar, have you not been told that a weak master mason leads to dead dwarves out their in the field? And even worse, perhaps even Kreuzhainer dwarves!¡± I jabbed back at him, echoing the words Kazador had so graciously spat out at us many times in the past. ¡°This isn¡¯t an act of thievery, my dear Delmar, it is an act of justice. To save the noble dwarves and Kreuzhainers who¡¯ll be so nobly taking their noble watches on our stone battlements and assaulting the dragonwalls of Sevisk on our siege towers.¡±


    ¡°A very noble act it is, then,¡± Delmar quipped. ¡°But how are you going to break into our favorite dwarf¡¯s chest?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll need to spend some time at the workshop with Ceecee, I suppose,¡± I mused, gently rubbing my chin as Delmar took a piece of bread and a few strips of salted meat from the Feasthall Master. ¡°I could outright ask Ceecee herself, I suppose, but the less in the know of our little heist, the better. I¡¯m not quite sure if Maren or Ceecee have the stomach for such¡­noble acts.¡±


    ¡°If only you could turn in a copper key to the Professor as your ¡®special¡¯ act of masonry,¡± Delmar pondered as we both took our seats on one of the wooden dining benches.


    The War College Feasting Hall looked as if it had been worked on by perhaps a dozen master masons, with a dozen different visions and ideas for what the hall might look like. Some portions of it seemed to exude an air of pragmatism, of practicality and efficiency. Serving tables were built of sturdy and smooth slate stone, and built as part of the hall itself, never having been replaced since construction, nor having needed replacement. Other portions were obviously worked on by more eccentric masons with a passion for flair and show, such as the stained glass portraits that doubled as skylights on the ceiling above. This was a daring and dangerous technique, using delicate, intricate stained glass in an area of the hall that needed loadbearing support the most, but the masons had compensated with a deft touch of supporting buttresses and augmenter pillars where needed. If they hadn¡¯t, Delmar and myself wouldn¡¯t have been enjoying our midday meal under the vibrant depiction of man and dwarf coming together to establish this college of specialized masons all those centuries ago.


    ¡°Speaking of ¡®special¡¯ acts, have you decided on what you¡¯ll be crafting for the Professor?¡± I asked Delmar. Apart from genuine curiosity, I also asked out of concern. I did not want Delmar to be presenting a simple pile of pebbles to the class again.


    ¡°A watch tower,¡± Delmar answered quickly, as if he had made up his mind ages ago.


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°Yes, a watch tower,¡± he repeated himself, resolute. ¡°If we had more back home, back in Avengard, perhaps Ignisclaw might have been spotted. Perhaps more people could have been saved, could have fled the city walls.¡±


    ¡°Do you have some design or quirk in mind that would have it specialize in spotting dragons from afar?¡± I asked Delmar.


    ¡°No,¡± he admitted. ¡°I wish I could build or design something of the sort, but nothing comes to mind.¡±


    ¡°So what makes this watch tower of your special?¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s built by me and standing, I suppose one would call it special,¡± Delmar answered, and we both laughed as we finished our helping of bread and salted meats.

 [8] His Own Creation

    Chapter Eight


    His Own Creation


    Two weeks after my conversation with Delmar at the feasting hall, I found myself spending another day with Ceecee at the Tinkerer¡¯s Workshop. There were, of course, many different workshops and yards and tool sheds around the campus to use for working on our own little special creations, but the Tinkerer¡¯s Workshop and its humble set of tools was often unoccupied, especially by Kreuzhainers who experimented with different forms of arcane runecrafting.


    Also, Ceecee often talked to herself as she worked, which others found annoying.


    I didn¡¯t mind, however, and I needed her for small tips and nudges on the two things that I was working on.


    The first, of course, was a little substitute key made out of copper wire. When she had asked why I was working on a key, I had fibbed about having problems with a finnicky lock on the chest of belongings that I kept by the foot of my bed. That was enough to alleviate her concerns, and in some way or form, I was able to ask her for pointers on keeping the key in shape with the mold that I had fashioned out of the contours of Kazador¡¯s lock.


    The second was my own creation.


    It was what I called a hand cannon.


    This little invention of mine was, as instructed, as special as anything else ever produced there in the College of Engineering. Certainly, it was more special than Kazador¡¯s model. After all, his miniature fortress repelled apples and chisels. It wouldn¡¯t repel cast-iron shot blown out by blackpowder from the barrel of a portable cannon.


    This creation could change the course of the war. Between the Union of the Free Cities of Jatta and the Empire of Sevisk, the next most compact cannon or firearm weighed upwards of three imperial tonnes at the very least, operated by a crew of two common footsoldiers and one engineer or master mason. With a hand cannon, it would be no stretch of imagination to venture a whole legion of foot soldiers equipped with their own beast of blackpowder, advancing and marching forward onto the Seviskian line, felling them as they move. Perhaps even felling a dragon? Perhaps Ignisclaw?


    It was with wholehearted disappointment then, of course, that I simply could not fathom how to get my creation to simply function to begin with. The thing just didn¡¯t work. Whatever variant, whatever adjustment I made to its design and prints, I simply couldn¡¯t find the right balance between shrinking down the cannon¡¯s barrel to something portable while having the right amount of blackpowder to ignite and fire off some cast-iron shot over a distance.


    Ceecee was, of course, witness to the many different failures of all the different versions of the hand cannon that I had crafted and tested with real blackpowder. Of those, she had seen thirty-two different prototypes fail in my very hands. Thirty-two manifestations of failure as I chased a wild vision that no engineer, human or dwarvish or Kreuzhainer or Avengardian, had been able to accomplish.


    We had placed an apple, similar to the one that the Professor was known to enjoy, on a stool across the workshop, but we had never managed a prototype of the hand cannon that could dent the apple¡¯s skin. We hadn¡¯t even managed a version that could touch the apple, to be honest.


    There was a whole spectrum of other problems that cannons and similar firearms held inherent within them, of course. A good quarter of cannons simply exploded in place, with the volatility and wild variance of blackpowder instability causing too much force to be contained within the iron or bronze of a cannon bore. And even foregoing then, the complex and intricate properties of blackpowder would lead to a whole assortment of different shortcomings. The projectile inside might fire and fall short, for example, or it might spiral and turn in whatever wild direction - including friendly infantry, or wandering cavalry. Imagine a portable design for such a cannon, with accurate blackpowder calculations! This could change the tide of war.


    Sadly, to imagine was all I could seem to do, even with the tools that I had my disposal at the Tinkerer¡¯s Workshop as well as with Ceecee¡¯s advice and input.


    ¡°Maybe you could line the bore with some i-iron plate to make it stronger. Here, let me forge something for you.¡±


    ¡°What if you made the b-blackpowder pot a bit wider at the top and narrower at the bottom? You¡¯d waste less powder.¡±


    ¡°The barrel you f-forged is way too wide. The shot could go anywhere!¡±


    The first few failures were innocuous enough. The blackpowder pot would fail to connect with the vent, and even after lighting the fuse, nothing would seem to happen. Everything would just fizzle out.


    After the early versions, however, I was really starting to worry Ceecee about the safety of what I was attempting to accomplish. The first ignition was less akin to that of cannonfire and closer to a wholly uncontrolled blackpowder explosion inside an iron pot. I burnt my hand and my whole forearm was peppered with the debris of various metals and alloys that Ceecee had helped me cast. After that incident, I made sure to conduct any other tests away from the stores of blackpowder that the Tinkerer¡¯s Workshop had set away for us to work with.


    And, just to complicate matters further, I hadn¡¯t devised some means of even igniting the blackpowder without another, separate assistant lighting some flint and tinder to set off the blackpowder pot and ignite a shot in the first place. It was simply too awkward for a lone wielder to hold the hand cannon, aim it towards some general direction, and somehow use a freehand to light the blackpowder tin and the same time.


    Delmar, at least, was enjoying a much greater degree of success with his endeavors over at the Wallwright¡¯s Yard, though many Kreuzhainers were taunting him for his lack of ambition. His watch tower was simply that - a watch tower - little more than some wooden ladders reinforced with steel plates. Still, he was building up to a fairly impressive height now at ten rods high. We ventured a guess together that once finished, a watchman from the top of the tower would probably have supposed a man on the ground to be no bigger than an ant. Not very useful for watching the streets, but very useful for watching for Seviskian dragons gliding through the skies.


    He was very humble in his approach to the calculations as well. No ego of his clouded his way. He sought help from anyone who could conceivably assist with his project. He approached the Professor, Maren, myself, and even some Kreuzhainers. He even thought to ask Kazador - and to both of our surprise, Kazador had assisted him with it. Delmar, Ceecee and I had a good laugh about the whole ordeal that evening. In some shape or form, it felt like everything was taking a turn for the better.


    But still, despite his assistance for Delmar¡¯s tower, I still wanted to know what Kazador was hiding behind his curtain. I still wanted to know what foul tricks or magicks he had used himself in building that impenetrable fortress. When asked, he had told Delmar that it was nothing but honest Kreuzhainer sweat and forging. Deep in my heart, I knew that it was something more similar to a forgery. There was simply no way anyone, no matter how talented, could have constructed that intricate model to be that robust and sturdy in that amount of time.


    So one afternoon, while most of the College was outside in the Yards for the unveiling of the different projects, including Delmar¡¯s own watch tower, I feigned a slight sickness and chose to stay in the dormitories while everyone else had left. I was patient. I couldn¡¯t lock the dormitory doors without arousing suspicion, and with my imperfect replication of Kazador¡¯s key, I knew that it would take me a good few moments before working the chest open. And so, I waited. I waited until outside, the exhibits were in full swing, and the Professor would be going from siege engine to trebuchet to model battlements.


    And once I had waited long enough, I went to work.


    I made my way to Kazador¡¯s bed and pulled his chest out from underneath it. The chest was identical to mine, save for its lock and the fact that his was many times heavier than my own. Curious. It was a similar situation as when I had created a mould of the lock¡¯s inner mechanisms with the wire. My own chest wasn¡¯t full by any means - I simply didn¡¯t own enough belongings to fill it up - but that wasn¡¯t enough to justify just how much heavier his chest was.


    I could hear spatters of clapping and excited cheering from the yards outside. I spared a moment to wish Delmar the best of luck with his watch tower. We had tested it together, and it was stable and got the job done, so there wasn¡¯t much more from him to do, but still. After all he had been through, he deserved a clean project to showcase to the Professor. To the class. He deserved a bit of pride in what he had accomplished and learned over the past seven months.


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    I jammed my replica key into the lock, and it didn¡¯t fit quite right. I frowned. Ceecee had warned me of this. Copper, she explained, is a relatively soft, malleable, and ductile metal compared to other forged alloys and compounds. Even in the short amount of time between forging it to the contours of the mould and then, some part of the key had deformed. It wasn¡¯t fitting in.


    I exhaled warm air into the replica key. I rubbed my palms against it, similar to how I had seen farmers and fisherman making a small fire with some dry twigs back in Listerborough. I warmed the key as much as I could, then jammed it back into the chest.


    Some more clapping from the yards outside.


    The chest clicked. The key worked. I yanked it back out, and as I did, it looked to deform the key even further. That was fine. It would have to do. I¡¯d only get one shot at rummaging through Kazador¡¯s belongings before locking the chest again and concealing my little play at trickery.


    I swung the chest open. The lid was heavy, and grimy with oil. The inside smelled like old books¡­but curiously, inside, there was only one pouch, one set of the golden baubles that Kazador would wear on his beard, and some simple Kreuzhain-styled clothes. What?


    I opened the pouch and immediately, it was apparent. This pouch was enchanted. It went by many names -  an Everspace Pouch, a Pocket o¡¯ Plenty, an Endless Satchel. But still, as a mason, I knew it by the name artificers would call it by - it was a Havensack.


    I reached into the Havensack and felt many different belongings. Many different tools, books, furs. I hoped, of course, that everything inside had been long dead; anything otherwise would have given me an awful fright.


    I fished out some parchment, then some empty notebooks, and then a pair of leather gloves. This gave me some pause. They felt different, apart from not being rotten and on the verge of deterioration, like mine. I realized that these gloves, too, were enchanted. Kazador was most definitely not lying about hailing from a rich clan of masons and artificers. After a few moments of inspection, a small moment of contact between the glove¡¯s thumb and its palm produced a fairly bright spark, and the artifact¡¯s purpose was apparent, and I recognized it as a pair of Flintstrike Gloves. Like a flint and tinder, but easier than a snap of a finger.


    These were rare. The Professor owned a pair, but they were a personal item, not something owned and distributed by the college. And with that, a familiar sense of envy and jealousy washed over me. Delmar¡¯s jest about refugees and thievery rang familiar in my mind¡­but still, I pocketed the pair of gloves in my trousers. It wouldn¡¯t be all too far-fetched for Kazador to assume that he had misplaced his special pair of gloves for an ordinary pair from one of the workshops or yards by accident.


    And still, I delved deeper into the Havensack. Schematics, blueprints, even a sketch on the margin of some old notebook would do. Surely, for such a magnum opus of a fortress model, Kazador had preserved some part of his project¡¯s plans for the future. Surely, he had some ambition of turning that model into a real-life dwarven fortress out in the field one day.


    Out from the Havensack, I pulled out a thick leather-bound notebook.


    This was it. Kazador¡¯s journal.


    A hit.


    Immediately, I started flipping through the pages, keeping my eyes wide for any schematics or diagrams of interest. Ever since I had entered the college myself all those months ago, with an abundance of paper, parchment, and ink, I had immersed myself in journaling, and spent almost every other free minute I had to myself obsessively sketching down diagram after diagram, plan after plan. The margins of everything I owned was filled with calculations and ink battlements.


    In Kazador¡¯s journal, I found nothing of the sort. I found no sketches, no diagrams, no blueprints. No obsession, no passion for the craft. This did not add up. He was raised in the forges. Brought to life by master masons and dwarven engineers.


    The words that lined Kazador¡¯s thick skull were centered on fashions from far-off lands like Duar Four Forges, like Avandrea, like Sonderland. Words that described gossips and intrigue between different nobles across territories of the Union of Free Cities. Princesses who were betrothed to one lord, but in bed with some other dwarf. Princes who were addicted to that herb, or this concoction. It was all gossip that may have sated the bloodlust of some other intruder into Kazador¡¯s journal, but not for me.


    I read on further. Finally, I saw something of interest - it wasn¡¯t a diagram nor schematic, but he had written the word ¡°model¡± and ¡°fortress¡± repeatedly in one section of the journal. I read on, picking out every word from his scratchy dwarvish handwriting.


    No¡­


    ¡­I found another messenger to deliver a message to my Father in Kreuzhain. The last masons he had sent me produced an undesirable craft. The plaything they called a fortress could barely withstand the fist I had thrown at it. Wholly unacceptable. Hopefully the next runecrafter Father sends knows how to build something with his hands¡­


    Kazador¡¯s fortress was impeccably done, and it was a mind-boggling achievement to have been accomplished by a lone mason¡¯s hands. Simply because it wasn¡¯t created by one. It was designed and forged and runecrafted by a team of dwarvish stonemasons, from some workshop in Kreuzhain.


    Kazador was a fraud. What quality, even, could one expect from him? From a mason who had no confidence in the fruit of his own craft? Who took the work of real masons and passed it off as his own?


    He was a fraud. And a hypocrite. He lectured us - like children - that if we didn¡¯t hone our craft, then we would build walls and towers that crumbled. That folded like paper. That would forsake the lives of the people they were meant to protect. We had done nothing wrong, but he branded Delmar, Maren, Ceecee, and myself as incompetents anyway.


    How dare he.


    For this, Kazador must suffer.


    He will feel my pain.


    Suddenly, I noticed a sensation that I hadn¡¯t experienced in months. The smell of sulphur¡­


    In a rage, I read on. More, more. Feed me more coal from which I will spit out Kazador¡¯s frail physique. I wanted more. I flipped through the pages, my fingers shaking with rage and emotion. More descriptions of runecrafters and master masons his father had fed him with, straight from his silver spoon. More inane, vapid gossip of interlopers and fake idols, nobles clothed in the blood and sweat of those they ruled. Expressions of wicked ego and forlorn vanities.


    And then, I read the passage¡­


    ¡­The sheepherder had the gall to ask me for assistance earlier today, as if I were his milkmaiden or caretaker. I was going to scream at him, but then I figured I wouldn¡¯t weigh free gold on the scales. I took the opportunity. On the day that they exhibit the works in the Yard, I think the whole College will see that these sheepherders are sheepherders, and not masons¡­


    What has he done with Delmar¡¯s tower?


    I threw the Havensack and Kazador¡¯s journal into the chest and I slammed it shut. With a swift kick, I booted the chest back underneath his bunk, and I kicked off the bedframe and started running, sprinting, rushing, out of the dormitories, my own shirt disheveled and barely buttoned up. I must have had a manic, crazed look on my eyes. Other Lances of the War College, other scholars, gave me an odd look as I darted past them.


    I crashed into a pair of scholars holding tomes, and all their paper and parchment spilled into a mess of leaf and ink on the floor, but I could spare no moment. No breath to offer an apology. Before they could protest and complain further, I darted on. Past the class hall, and past the feasting hall.


    The Wallwright¡¯s Yard.


    It was crowded with different professors, Lances, masons. Cannons and rockets boomed and screamed in scattered demonstrations of engineering mastery. People crowded around different machinations of war, different sorts of contraptions and walls and defenses. I scanned above the crowd, finding a runecrafted trebuchet, then a brass-cast ballista, and then finally - Delmar¡¯s watch tower.


    I rushed after it, screaming his name, shouting and bellowing so loud that my lungs were aching for air and my eyes felt as if they were about to pop.


    ¡°Delmar! Delmar!¡± I screamed as loud as I could, but with the crowd, with the cheering, with the cannonade of different firing cannons and rockets being exhibited, I stood no chance. Delmar was on his tower, climbing up its ladder, almost reaching the top¡­


    ¡°Delmar!¡± I called after him again. ¡°Get down there! It¡¯s not safe!¡±


    From up above, Delmar could not hear me, but a small group of Kreuzhainers had heard me and snickered wickedly. They did not understand what I had meant. They had not read what I had seen.


    ¡°Boom!¡± another cannon went off on the other side of the yard.


    I made my way right up to the base of the watch tower. Emblazoned on its wooden foundation was a plaque with only three words. Avengard¡¯s Skyward Protector. I pushed and shoved my way through the crowd until I was right by the tower, holding the rungs up to the ladder, and I considered making my way upwards so that Delmar might hear me and I could explain, but I thought better of it. If Kazador had given him sabotaged calculations, then the tower might not take kindly to two people resting atop its peak.


    ¡°Delmar!¡± I called at him again. This time, he heard me.


    He leaned from over the edge, arms pressed against its railings and hollered at me, ¡°Scipio! Look at what I¡¯ve done! Something to watch over Avengard with, yeah?¡±


    ¡°Boom!¡± one of the larger cannons, one of the ones that required a squad of seven men to operate went off, and the ground shook. I heard wood creaking. I saw wood splintering.


    ¡°Delmar, get down from there!¡±


    ¡°Boom!¡± another cannon went off, and the earth trembled yet again, and the tower¡¯s base beam groaned before snapping with a wicked wooden crack. I do not know which was louder; the cannon or the sound of hundreds of thick support beams snapping and iron rivets and supporting plates clanging against each other.


    Dust and loose splinters and stone scattered into the air as beam after beam crashed into the ground. The tower tilted and swayed quickly, wildly, in one direction and then the next, as shockwave after shockwave of snapping echoed around every section of the tower.


    ¡°Delmar!¡± I screamed one last time, before a sharp, stray metal rod jutted into the side of my face, and a hard, broad base of wood slammed into the back of my head, and I blacked out before my body had collapsed onto the ground cold, along with Delmar¡¯s last creation on this mortal plane.

 [9] Injustice, Watching, Revenge

    Chapter Nine


    Injustice, Watching, Revenge


    I woke up to total darkness and unfamiliar voices asking me to be still and lie down. My head was aching with a sharp, incisive bolt of pain, as if a rod-long needle were plunged into my skull and jutting out of the side of my neck. I groaned. The voices grew louder, and sounded more and more concerned.


    ¡°Delmar, brother,¡± I moaned in confusion and pain. ¡°The tower¡­it¡¯s not safe.¡±


    ¡°Keep still, young College Lance,¡± the voice urged me. ¡°You¡¯re in a lot of pain. You need to rest and keep still so you can heal.¡±


    I struggled, squirming and writhing in complete darkness, wholly devoid of my eyesight. I could feel now that my face was covered with rolls of gauze. My hands were wrapped tightly with bandages, right around my knuckles. My ears had began to ring, further blurring the voices that were hoping to coax and calm me down. ¡°Kazador¡­he sabotaged your project¡­:¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve given you different herbs, young Lance, and you might notice a slight nausea. Your vision might be a bit strange now.¡±


    I felt someone¡¯s hands now on my face. I winced in pain. They were unwrapping the gauze from my face, and I could feel skin and dried blood sticking and peeling and tearing off along with the bandages.


    I could see again¡­but the world did seem strange. My vision was lopsided. Was it the concoctions and herbs they had given me while I was knocked out?


    No.


    I simply could not see out my right eye.


    ¡°What happened to me?¡± I groaned, panicked.


    ¡°You were hurt in the Wallwright¡¯s Yard when Delmar¡¯s project had failed and collapsed.¡± I saw her now, the source of the voice, a sicksister from the college¡¯s infirmary. ¡°An unsupported iron beam swung out and lashed into the side of your face. Your eye, I¡¯m afraid, was unrecoverable, but please understand that you are simply lucky to be alive.¡±


    Lucky to be alive. The words weighed heavy on me. Objectively, some luck was on my side, after all. The past few years¡¯ flight from home in Dalintaya, to Listerborough, to Fleur d¡¯Lain, to Avengard had been a perilous one, and anyone could see that some fortune had been on my side in surviving that journey.


    ¡°And what of Delmar?¡± I asked, urgently. ¡°How is he?¡±


    The sicksister dropped her gaze to the floor. That was all the answer that I had needed. Strangely, yet again, the smell of sulphur seemed to tinge my nose, though this time, I paid it no mind.


    And so I wept. I felt hot tears mixed with blood start to slowly trickle down my cheeks. This worried the sicksister some, but she knew better than to ask me to do otherwise. Instead, she simply picked off a fresh piece of cotton from a tray, and began to dab at my face, with special care around where my right eye had once been.


    After I had wept, she explained to me how to care for my injuries. She explained to me take a simple herbal concoction of celandine, blue myrtle, and sunflower oil, so as dull the splitting headaches that I could expect from now on. She had also stressed how unusual it was that I was able to live at all, or even be awake and speaking to her. As if I had some otherworldly being watching over me - something I most definitely doubted.


    The sicksister gave me an eyepatch to wear, once the wounds from my eye had dried enough to wear one. It was a boiled brown leather patch, with the college¡¯s insignia printed on it in a subtle bronze - simply a small icon of a cannon in front of a beam compass. It would have to do.


    Ceecee and Maren visited, thankfully, and kept me company the following morning after a restless, nightmare-fueled night, once they had heard that I had awaken. Once they expressed their relief to see me alive and shared their grief with me in mourning for Delmar, I asked them if they had seen Kazador recently.


    I explained further, ¡°¡­Once I had broken into his chest, I found his journal, you see. Inside, he confessed to the most insane, the most vile behaviour I had ever seen with my own eyes.¡± Ceecee very visibly suppressed a sharp quip. I pressed on, ¡°Delmar himself had trusted Kazador with his tower. With his life. And Kazador, that dwarf had betrayed him. Killed him. Sabotaged his tower with his calculations. That¡¯s why his tower had collapsed!¡±


    Ceecee¡¯s eyes grew wide, but Maren seemed slightly more skeptical.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Scipio, that¡¯s an awfully large finger you¡¯re pointing over at Kazador there,¡± she muttered under her breath. ¡°Did you take the journal maybe? Something you could use as proof?¡±


    ¡°No. I had thrown it back into his personal chest. The only thing that was on my mind was warning Delmar, getting him off that tower. But that shouldn¡¯t matter,¡± I snarled. ¡°Everyone knows Kazador¡¯s been out for Delmar. Everyone knows that dwarf was on the lookout for any chance of ending his life. Or any of our lives! With his damned story about who should or shouldn¡¯t be an engineer¡­¡±


    Maren persisted, ¡°Scip, that¡¯s why you have to be careful. If you start trouble for Kazador, nothing will happen to him, but he might get started on you. Or us.¡±


    I raised my eyebrows. ¡°Start trouble? Maren, have you lost your heart? He murdered Delmar - our friend! - and you¡¯re more worried about what might become of us?¡±


    ¡°Delmar probably would have made a mistake with that tower anyway,¡± she commented without thinking, and I screamed at her to leave. I yelled at her at the top of my lungs, with enough passion that my throat began to swell and my head began to ache. Maren did not retract her words, nor did she apologize for what she said, and so she left.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t have to s-scream at her like that, you know,¡± Ceecee bit her lip as she spoke softly, as if she were wary that I might scream at her as I did to Maren. She couldn¡¯t meet my gaze, and gave the walls a sidewards glance as she spoke instead.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    ¡°I know,¡± I told her in as reassuring a tone as I could muster. ¡°But it¡¯s not right. Delmar woke as hard as anyone building that tower, sketching up those plans. It was Kazador that brought that tower down, not Delmar.¡±


    ¡°I b-believe you, Scip. But Maren also made a good a-argument. Kazador can¡¯t be t-touched. He¡¯s too good of a m-mason for the college not to send him to the lines. He¡¯d come after us instead,¡± she murmured.


    ¡°Injustice,¡± I said, and that was all I could think to say.


    ¡°I know,¡± she whispered. ¡°In my f-family, Scipio, well¡­we littlings have a strong s-sense of that. Of seeing when something is right and when something is wrong. We see it, and everytime it happens, it b-burns a hole in our hearts. But at the end of the day, there¡¯s not much we can do. But we learn to live with it. Keep the injustice in a little b-box locked away. And maybe one day we¡¯ll get to open that box and do something about it. But until then, we live on¡­¡±


    There was nothing else we could do. Their reasoning was sound. We bid our goodbyes, and Ceecee left me so that I could rest on that infirmary bed and recover. Her words stewed and simmered relentlessly in my mind. A little box? Locked away?


    Soon enough, evening came, and as the rest of the college descended into sleep, I laid there steadfast, wide awake. My mind whirred with possibilities, with options. I considered what would happen if I had told the Professor, if I had told the Watch at Kreuzhain, if I broke into Kazador¡¯s chest again to retrieve evidence, if I sent a letter detailing the situation back to his clan¡­


    All so very minuscule courses of action to take to avenge the death of a friend. All worthless and senseless in the long run. Futile in the face of a dwarf whose power and influence reached parts of the world I couldn¡¯t even fathom¡­


    ¡­And soon enough, I had lulled into a gentle slumber.


    Or was it?


    I felt as if I were still there, still in the magelight torch-lit of the infirmary. My body felt firmly grounded in that stiff straw bed. I could feel the bandages still wrapped tightly around my knuckles. The ache of my back from not having stood up for three days then.


    But I opened my eye, and I could see it. Her. The spirit. That strange wisp-like form floating above my infirmary bed, with two glowing beads of a dark blue light hanging on it like eyes, watching me.


    The air grew colder, like a deep chill, like a deep and dark cellar in the wintertime. The magelight seemed to flicker unnaturally from the sides of my vision, but I could not turn my head to look. I could not move at all.


    My brain told me that I should have been alarmed, that I should have been scared. My brain told me to get up and run and flee and call for help.


    My body refused to move. My heart remained calm. Tranquil.


    And more than anything, more than what I could see of that strange ethereal form hanging over me, I could smell sulphur. It was the smell of burnt torches and expended brimstone. Of weapons of war being crafted in a forge. Of Ignisclaw breathing fire down on the ruins of Avengard.


    And then a voice. Not one heard with the ears, but one felt deep in the bones, in my skull. It was a feminine voice, soft, like a delicate silk laid over a fresh corpse.


    ¡°It is time,¡± the spirit said, wisps of translucent black color melting in and out of existence from the contours of its silhouette as it spoke. A visage of a feminine figure, fading in and out of existence.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± I attempted to ask it, but I could not move my mouth.


    Still, the spirit answered the question, as if it had read my own mind, ¡°I am She Who Takes. I consume the world, and I wait beyond the very veil of grief and mourning. The Lady of Nightshade, of the Eternal Evening.¡±


    Still, my heart remained tranquil. The hairs on my skin, on the back of my neck, on my arms, began to raise. The room grew ever colder with a chill that reached my bones.


    ¡°Injustice,¡± the spirit said simply, echoing my own words from earlier that day.


    ¡°Watching.¡±


    ¡°Revenge.¡±


    I groaned suddenly, as if a crashing wave of emotion and energy filled my soul, and I could move freely. The dull throb in my head was gone. The pain in my knuckles was gone. The stiffness in my back, gone. I could move again. I felt as if I could move better, quicker, faster than I ever could have in my whole life.


    I looked up towards the spirit and it was not there, but the smell of sulphur remained. The deep chill remained. My injuries, however, were nowhere to be found.


    A sense of rage and righteous fury enveloped me, and I got up to my feet. My eyes met a mirror, and I could see myself for the first time since that fateful day. I removed the bandages wrapped around my head, and underneath, I got my first look of the eyepatch that I was wearing, my new face for the rest of my life.


    But stranger than anything else, I could see now that my eye that did remain had lost all of its color. It was jet black, opaque like a starless night, and from it emanated a faint glow, similar to the smoke-like wisps that had surrounded the spirit. The manifestation, I had reasoned, of the Lady of Loss.


    I found no inhibitions keeping me from associating with her, despite what I had been taught again and again as a child. Despite her status as an Exiled One, a forbidden god, worshiped only by the deranged and the few.


    And her words echoed and pounded in my heart.


    Injustice.


    Watching.


    Revenge.


    I did not want to merely watch. I wanted revenge. I would exact my revenge on Kazador, the dwarf that had murdered my brother. That had looked on me as less than human, that had belittled my potential, my ambition. My power to create.


    I will end him.


    ¡°Give me Kazador,¡± I whispered to myself with a bloodthirst that I had never heard myself speak with. I walked out of the infirmary with swift but deliberate steps, the look on my face determined and unmoving as I did.


    I entered the Tinkerer¡¯s Workshop. It was unlocked.


    Then, I got to work.


    I do not recall, how much time I spent in that workshop. Hours passed by without my notice, and I worked on as swiftly in the fifth hour as I did in the first. I did not tire. I did not relent.


    I do not recall, also, what was flowing through the confines of my mind as I worked. I do not remember what reasonings I had for which components I chose, nor which compounds I mixed with other alloys. My hands blended with the hammer and with the forge. And even in the heat of the roaring hearth, still, my skin felt cold and chilled to the touch.


    And with the forge as with the anvil, I crafted a metal barrel, born out of divine inspiration, and strong enough to contain the explosive force and outward pressures of blackpowder interacting with flame.


    And I continued to work, stopping for no food nor drink nor rest. With incredible dexterity and nimbleness that would have rivaled Ceecee herself, I crafted an intricate firing mechanism that utilized the Flintstrike Gloves I had procured from Kazador¡¯s personal chest. Whilst wearing the gloves, with my thumb on the base of the barrel, I could pull at a trigger with my other finger, causing a pin to strike against the enchanted gloves and direct a small flame towards the blackpowder pot that would create the controlled explosion propelling iron shot towards the target.


    And with the barrel and with the trigger, I had solved the majority of the problems I had encountered in testing with Ceecee - except one. The volatility of the blackpowder itself.


    And, through no rhetoric nor means of rational thought, and by pure intuition, I pulled an alchemist¡¯s kit from one of the workshop drawers, and I started mixing blackpowder with saltpeter, as had been done before by different engineers, smiths, and artillerists before me, but I added one new compound to the solution.


    Sulphur.


    Once I had mixed enough of the powder to my liking, I poured a fair amount into the hand cannon¡¯s blackpowder pot, and the rest into a small leather pouch that I kept by my belt.


    Then I drew the cannon, and pulled the trigger, and the shot was true, and the apple that we had kept on the stool for testing splattered onto the wall behind it.


    I loaded another bearing of iron shot into the hand cannon, and slipped it into my cloak.


    It was time to go hunting.


    I would have Kazador¡¯s soul delivered to the Lady of Loss.

 [10] Fury

    Chapter Ten


    Fury


    The War College Halls, just as the sun was beginning to rise. With the hand cannon tucked and hidden away in my cloak and my eyes still flickering with an unnatural glow, I searched the dormitory for my prey.


    Delmar¡¯s bed was empty, save for a single Smiling Buttercup. It was a flower that would often grow around the fields of Avengard, right below the Black Forest. Maren and Ceecee must have gone off looking for one. They handled their grief with grace. I, with vengeance.


    I searched on. Kazador¡¯s bed - but it was naught but that. Empty as well. The bed was made. He had gone off. So early. I would have to find him elsewhere on campus.


    There were three possibilities for Delmar¡¯s whereabouts this early in the morning. The Kreuzhainer, after all, like many dwarves and even more so for engineers and masons, was a creature of habit, and rarely diverged from his set routine. He could be at the Dining Hall, or at the Duar Workshop, or at the Stacks. I would find him there.


    Before I left the dormitory, I had the presence of mind to grab a satchel from my own bed. I wasn¡¯t quite sure of how long it would be until I could enjoy the comfort of my own bed again, once I¡¯ve found Kazador and fed my hand cannon its first quarry.


    I made my exit from the dormitory. The halls and corridors of the campus were still sparse, but still, there were watching eyes that I had to stay aware of. Other students, and masons and professors that might try and stop me from finding Kazador, from invoking justice for Delmar. Subtly, I felt for the infernal machine that I had forged and crafted and hidden behind my cloak. If I had held it in the open, would the others have even understood the weight of what it was that I carried? The lethality of the iron I had bent to my will?


    I reached the Dining Hall now. Only few benches had any students sat on them. Most were empty, the soft orange glow of the still rising sun resting its rays on waiting seats and clean silverware. I scanned the hall.


    One bench with a small group of Kreuzhainers, mostly human. Two dwarves, neither of them Kazador. Then on the opposite side of the hall, another small group, but this one consisting of journeymen, novices, just like Delmar had been. Some from Halle, and some from Dewdrop. For a second, I wondered what language they must have been conversing in, but then my focus quickly and wholly set itself back on finding Kazador. Finally, a last table with some diners. Just three of them - all of them from Helstendam, those who had made the journey across the Mittelsea to contribute to the cause with a hammer instead of a spear. No Kazador there either.


    So he was somewhere else. The Workshop, then, or the Stacks.


    I started making my way to the Duar Workshop. It was, as with many things in dwarvish culture, extremely hierarchical and segregated in that only Duar - dwarves - were allowed to use it. They reasoned that it was to protect tradition, and the secrets that their tools and methods preserved within their culture. I viewed it as hypocrisy. Kazador had argued that weak masons would lead to greater losses on the field. Why, then, would they keep such knowledge away from us?


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    I pulled at the handle. Locked.


    I pulled out the hand cannon. I appreciated its weight, the heft of the iron in my hand, before I set the barrel on the lockset and flicked the Flintstrike Gloves at the powder pot. Inside my creation, the small flame reacted with a compound of blackpowder, saltpeter, and sulphur, and exploded the shot straight at the door, blasting a small hole clean through the lock.


    The door swung open.


    ¡°What in the blazes?¡± a dwarf with a dark grey beard swore as I entered the workshop, checking each corner. No Kazador.


    ¡°What in the devil¡¯s call was that?¡± another dwarf asked. I didn¡¯t answer. I was on the hunt, and there was only one other spot where my quarry might be.


    The Stacks. He must be somewhere in the Library, either reading some obscure book in dwarvish, or by the Pile, where messengers would drop off letters and packages. He always had correspondence flowing in; now I knew that it must have been orders for plagiarized inventions and stolen creations. Acts of ingenuity and engineering excellence that he usurped in his name.


    I made my way to the Library, and with every step, I could feel my hunger for vengeance build and simmer, like the spark that lights a cannon¡¯s powder pot. I thought of how much I had lost over the past years. With Sevisk waging war, I fled my home in Dalintaya. I lost my father, and my mother as well. I was forced to leave my sister behind in Avengard. And I thought of how during those years, Kazador enjoyed his life behind firm, sturdy walls, with his belly full and tutors at his beck and call.


    It was an injustice. If there are just and fair gods above us all, then why would they allow such to happen to mortal men? For what reason would any god had ascended, if this was the world that we were left with?


    I entered the Stacks. There were some students there already, seated in place, reading and studying different tomes, books, and scrolls. A small line had formed by the Pile, holding small pieces of parchment to be sent off. But no Kazador there.


    I scanned the rows of bookshelves and tables and tome-carts that were littered around the Stacks but found no one. It was extremely frustrating. Where could this damned dwarf even be?


    Finally, I approached one of the dwarves handing off some parchment to be sent to Kreuzhain to the Pile and asked if he knew where Kazador was.


    ¡°Still have a grudge with him, ja? He¡¯s an upstanding dwarf. I¡¯m sure you don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about,¡± he answered.


    I resisted the urge to draw the hand cannon then and there. ¡°I just want to know where is so we can talk,¡± I insisted.


    ¡°He¡¯s in Kreuzhain, making his vacation. He took leave since two days ago, the one he earned from the Professor¡¯s modeling project.¡±


    Damn this all to seven hells.


    Another voice spoke to me then, one that wasn¡¯t a dwarf. It was a woman, a littling, one of Ceecee¡¯s few friends from the War College. She spoke up and asked me, ¡°Excuse me, are you Scipio¡­Kalataunus, from Avengard? I have a letter for you. It¡¯s been here a while, but you never seem to check in with the Pile.¡±


    I straightened myself out, trying to cast out thoughts of chasing after Kazador and deserting the College for a moment. I answered, ¡°I don¡¯t exactly have the coin to send letters. And I don¡¯t know anyone who has any coin to send me parchments, either.¡±


    ¡°This one has your name on it. From Avengard, someone named¡­Isidora?¡±


    I furrowed my brow. How did she earn the coin for this? And even if she did have the coin, why would she spend it on a letter, instead of bread or a jug of pure water?


    ¡°That¡¯s my sister,¡± I stammered, taking the letter from her. I used the letter opener from the counter to rip out the seal on the roll of parchment and unfurled it. Inside, were but a few words.


    Avengard is preparing for an attack. Sevisk is attacking, but the Laurel¡¯s keeping the men to defend Kreuzhain¡¯s walls. We¡¯re alone, Scip.

 [11] Fuel Your Ambitions

    Chapter Eleven


    Fuel Your Ambitions


    ¡°Messr Scipio, I understand that you are distraught. But please, would you understand that there is nothing we can do? Your sister¡¯s letter is very sad, yes, but I have my orders, Messr Scipio, and you have yours. You should be happy that I don¡¯t have you martialled for the speech that your sister here has chosen. It¡¯s a hard war for all, ja, and to purport that the Free Cities is favoring the defense of one city over another, that¡¯s total quatsch. Think no more of it, and persist in your studies, and you¡¯ll serve your sister much better in that way. Understood?¡±


    The words pounded in my ears as the dwarf, the Grand Marshal of Engineering, pounded his fist on my sister¡¯s letter. He was flanked by his second and third in command, the Arch-Sapper and the Master of Forge and Fire. All three of them were dwarves. All three of them had hailed from Kreuzhain.


    They hadn¡¯t even given me the courtesy of ceasing from their lunchtime beers as they heard me air my grievances. The Arch-Sapper continuously took heaving gulps from a large tankard of beer that he had brought with him, branded in white paint in a seal of some brewery from Duar D¡¯ardin that I had never heard of.


    Behind me, the Emberhold Hearth crackled and rolled its coals. The room wasn¡¯t just warm, it was hot. Sweltering. In the Dining Halls, Maren and Ceecee had told Delmar and myself that the Office of the Grand Marshal¡¯s hearth was connected to each and every one of the college¡¯s forges so that the Marshal would be able to survey how much production was being pumped out of the College based off the heat that the hearth would radiate. With the Emberhold to my back and the three old Kreuzhainer dwarves to my front, I was sweating heaps, but I fought on for them to hear out Isidora¡¯s letter.


    ¡°But there must be something we ought to be doing, correct? Don¡¯t you think that this constitutes some level of action from our part? The Council of the Free Cities would want to hear that Avengard needs more defenses, and-¡°


    ¡°The Council of the Free Cities does not take military advice from the letters of War College Lances, Lance Scipio,¡± the Grand Marshal pointed his thick finger at me as he scolded me, and I could have sworn I saw small bags of fat shaking on his finger as he did.


    ¡°But then, Wilhelm-¡°


    ¡°That¡¯s Grand Marshal Wilhelm to you, little boyling,¡± the Arch-Sapper interrupted me.


    ¡°Grand Marshal Wilhelm, like I had told you months ago, I had seen Seviskian scouts in the Black Forest. Boots on the ground, men right before the walls. I know that the forest can act as a sort of protection from the Seviskian front, but what if it¡¯s instead acting as a cloak? A screen that invading men are hiding behind?¡±


    ¡°Historically, that¡¯s impossible,¡± the Arch-Sapper interjected again before the Grand Marshal could share his thoughts. ¡°The supply train and logistics traveling through the thicket of the Black Forest would be too difficult. It can¡¯t be done.¡±


    ¡°What if they¡¯ve invented something new?¡± I challenged them. ¡°Some new tactic, or some new machine that trivializes logistics?¡±


    ¡°Quatsch,¡± the Grand Marshal said. ¡°Ridiculous. Kreuzhain here is at the peak of engineering, driven by the War College itself. We know that the age of inventions is before us. Engineering, Lance Scipio, is a matter of optimization, ja? Everything that can be invented has already been invented. Look no further than the War College.¡±


    I thought to reach for the hand cannon and wave it in their face, proving them wrong, showing them that innovation was still possible, and by non-dwarves nonetheless, but I thought better of it. The hand cannon was a massive leap in lethality, one conceived, essentially, by the Lady of Loss herself. Unleashing this unto the world would require a bit more thought.


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing I can say or do that would change your minds, then,¡± I voiced my realization.


    ¡°Now you are beginning to understand,¡± the Arch-Sapper confirmed as he took a swig of his brew.


    With that, I bade my goodbye, but not my thanks. They merely grunted as I turned my backs to them to leave the Grand Marshal¡¯s office, the heat of the Emberhold Hearth lightly singing my skin as I made my exit. That hearth was very likely the last piece of change or innovation that had been embraced by dwarvish leaders within the War College, and it had been installed at least fifty years prior. All they saw was that productivity and output were high; they did not seem to bother check whether what was being produced matched the realities of the day and age.


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    I needed to think, and so I walked. I walked aimlessly, with no destination in mind, and almost matching my mind step for step, my thoughts wandered aimlessly as well. The weight of the hand cannon, slipped into a pocket of my cloak, and what its weight would be on a world that seemed hungry for blood. Vengeance for Delmar, and what justice I could possibly earn for him when everybody else seemed convinced that the tower¡¯s collapse was born of his own mistakes. And, finally, Isidora¡¯s letter, and how I could best help my sister with two more years of being tied to the War College on my shoulders.


    My shoulders. The worries and anxieties and traumas began to pile up on them, and as I walked, I felt as if I were carrying the world on my back. More thoughts, more dread. The smell of sulphur in my nostrils as I had administered the nightshade to my mother. The burning bodies and forlorn screams as Ignisclaw bathed Avengard in his inferno. The years that my family had spent on the run, so very far now from our home in the Dalintaya Isles.


    Suddenly, I came to my senses. I hadn¡¯t realized where I walked to.


    I was on the top of the War College¡¯s watch tower. If I remembered my lessons correctly, then I had climbed over a hundred and fifty steps without realizing it. Just a few dozen feet away, a cinderhawk glided through the sky, a specie of bird endemic to the region that had adapted to the constant ash and smoke from the city¡¯s furnaces with its dark grey plumage. Somehow, the cinderhawk had adapted to an unforgiving world. Could I?


    All of these questions I had in my head, with no answers. So many problems without clear solutions. As I looked out to the night sky over the rolling, empty plains, I felt small, like a tiny speck of dust on an infinite canvas. For what reason would I endure such impossible hardships? For what meaning would I take on such painful sacrifices?


    I drew the hand cannon and I held it to my temple.


    As I held the freshly wrought iron barrel to my head, one singular thought stayed cemented in my mind. The world, as broken as it was, simply could not be changed. This immutable fact stayed steadfast in between my ears. If there were a world without the Seviskians bringing war and violence to Jattan soil, then, in all likelihood, it would be the Kreuzhainers and their black and white sense of morality, or the elvish monarchy in Fleur d¡¯Lain from their ivory towers, from which they rejected my family along with other refugees, or perhaps even the Avengardians who had let their Laurel be so easily corrupted by the other Free Cities.


    And if the world would stay broken, why continue?


    As I walked mindlessly up the stairs to the peak of the War College, many different questions had flooded my brain, but at the top, I realized that at its core, there was only one, and that was the question of pulling on the hand cannon¡¯s trigger.


    And so, with the tip of the barrel pointed at my temple, I pulled the trigger.


    The Flintstrike Gloves ignited the blackpowder pot, leading to the chemical reaction igniting the iron shot, and-


    The wisp-like visage with two glowing eyes floated before me once again. And the world seemed to stop. The cinderhawk was frozen in mid-air, its grey wings unmoving. The brick and stone under my feet¡­gone. The entire campus had disappeared; all that remained was the sky and the haunting coalescence of smoke and spirit-stuff constantly moving and re-forming before me. The Avatar of the Lady of Loss.


    ¡°Deserter,¡± the spirit taunted me, each syllable emphasized deliberately, like a haunting echo reverberating inside a dark seaside grotto. The smoky wisps began swirling and spiraling until they collapsed together forming a more material, a more recognizable womanly figure.


    ¡°I have no choice!¡± I yelled at the figure, as unwise as it was. ¡°I can¡¯t wait another two, three years in this damned college while Avengard burns a thousand miles away, and my sister with it.¡±


    ¡°That is not the desertion I speak of,¡± the Lady of Loss¡¯ Avatar mouthed before me, with my body still held unmoving by Her unseen grasps. Seeing her before me reminded me of the cold, dense fog that gathered over the wreckage of Avengard after the Seviskian raid. ¡°You desert your duties to me. Your life is not yet forfeit. Your soul must remain on this mortal realm.¡±


    ¡°My duties to you?¡± I echoed her, perplexed. ¡°What could I possibly do for you that you couldn¡¯t accomplish with the wave of a hand? Why won¡¯t you let me just rest?¡±


    In my hands, Her unseen grasp picked away the hand cannon from my grip, and the iron glowed with a menacing black aura. She floated the hand cannon back into my cloak and said, ¡°You may rest when I allow it, as with all of your kind. All you have loved, all you have lost, and all you will lose belong to me. So do you.¡± After a moment, she added, as if she felt the need to clarify herself, ¡°All you are is what you have loved and what you have lost.¡±


    I did not have the heart nor the courage to argue against an Exiled God. Instead, I asked, ¡°So what is it you want me to do, then? Anything I could do would be a drop in the ocean. You should have chosen Grand Marshal Wilhelm instead maybe, or better yet, Kazador.¡±


    She began floating me down slowly, safely, towards the ground, towards the Wallwright¡¯s Yard where Delmar had fallen along with his tower. As she did, she spoke, ¡°The self is fleeting, but much lighter than you may understand. Take the loss and pain that has accumulated in your life and burn it.¡±


    ¡°To throw it away?¡±


    ¡°To fuel your ambitions,¡± the Lady of Loss said simply. ¡°So come down from that tower and descend upon the world with the powers I am granting you, and engage with your pain as a catalyst.¡±


    I landed gently atop my feet a fluttering bed of grass on the Wallwright¡¯s Yard, and confused, guarded, I looked up towards the sky at the Avatar of the Lady and asked her, ¡°What powers? Why are you helping me? To what end have you chosen me?¡±


    And without heeding my questions, the willowy wisps began to unravel and vanish, and I was left with even more questions than I had answers. Only one thing was certain; I was leaving the War College, whether I was granted permission or not.

 [12] Come and Stay a While

    Chapter Twelve


    Come and Stay a While


    Ceecee, Maren,


    I understand that we don¡¯t see eye to eye on what happened to Delmar. I might not have the evidence to prove it, but I saw the journal with my own eyes, and I know what he did with Delmar¡¯s tower. I can¡¯t stay in the College knowing that the dwarf who killed my best friend¡¯s sleeping a few bunks down the dormitory for me, so I hope you¡¯ll understand as well when I tell you that I¡¯m leaving the War College.


    I¡¯m going to flee somewhere far from here, miles away from the College and miles away from the Seviskian front. Maybe Marasko, or somewhere quiet like Forder Plains. Somewhere I won¡¯t have to think about this war.


    Thanks for leaving the roses on Delmar¡¯s bed by the way. I¡¯m sure he would have appreciated the gesture.


    I¡¯ll see you in the next life,


    Scip


    I signed my name on the piece of parchment and left the letter right atop Ceecee¡¯s workspace inside the Tinkerer¡¯s Workshop. That was at midnight; I¡¯d have at least a six hour head start before anyone would notice that I had deserted the War College on foot.


    And of course, I wasn¡¯t escaping the war entirely. I wasn¡¯t headed somewhere quiet, like the farming town of Forder Plains to the far west, or the desert city of Marasko to the south. I was headed deep into the heart of the war. First stop Kreuzhain, final destination Avengard.


    I hoped that Ceecee and Maren understood the wink in their direction when I had mentioned the roses; they had, of course, left Smiling Buttercups on Delmar¡¯s bed, the flower of Avengard. No Avengarder in their right minds would leave roses on a grave. Hopefully they had the sense to share the note with the Professor, or better yet the Marshal, and throw them off my scent.


    What I was doing was, of course, illegal. At minimum, it was desertion. Every drafted member of the Free Cities¡¯ war effort was chained to their post by the waist, whether spearman or Lance of the War College. At worst, it was treachery. As Lances, after all, we had an intimate undertstanding of some of the Free Cities¡¯ most closely guarded engineering secrets, most of which were Kreuzhain¡¯s.


    Should I be caught and tried with desertion, I would be enslaved and sent to the front, most likely as a bricklayer or suicide sapper. Should I be tried with treachery, I would no longer have to worry about the war; the penalty would be death. But even in death, based off how the Lady of Loss had treated me on the top of that tower the night before, I had a feeling that even that would not be so simple.


    In choosing what I would bring with me on my flight away from the War College, I thought like an engineer, just as the Grand Marshal and the Professor themselves would have wanted me to think.


    First, I mentally laid out the framework of ensuring my equipment would serve the maximum level of utility for whatever I¡¯d need. I broke it down into three parts. Every good framework, you see, is something that¡¯s simply been broken down into three parts.


    Sustenance. Subtlety. Smithing.


    Sustenance was an obvious necessity and pressing concern. As a Lance of the War College, we earned the same wages as any common spearman or supply caravaner for the Legion of the Free Cities. This meant that for each week in service, we earned half a Royal, which was just about enough for seven hot meals.


    Since I hadn¡¯t stepped foot outside the College since leaving Avengard, nor had I purchased any special meals or personal items, I had saved each and every coin the Legion had granted me. In my pouch, I had thirteen and a half Royals with me, which was a fair sum for an average man living in average times, but I was looking at a sole journey hiking to Avengard ahead of me, while evading both Seviskian invaders as well as Free City officers who¡¯d enjoy a meaty bounty for any deserter that they¡¯d be able to round up.


    Writing down the maths and sums on the side of an old scrap of parchment I had used to design my fortress model, I estimated, then, that my coin was enough to last me twenty days worth of travel, rations, shelter, supplies and all.


    This was good - but it still wasn¡¯t enough to last me to Avengard. Somehow, on my journey, I¡¯d need to find a way to lighten the load. Maybe an odd job for a tavernkeeper or butcher if I could manage it; I doubted in my ability to hunt or forage for food in the wilderness. That was simply outside of my skillset; I understood the philosophies of the sciences, and not of natural biology.


    I considered the application of the hand cannon for hunting small game, or even a deer¡­and then I thought better of it. The blast was almost as loud as that of a three ton demicannon, and I wouldn¡¯t have any means of dealing with that sort of attention. Besides, the iron shot would most likely shatter inside the game, and I simply had no desire of cracking my teeth on my own material.


    Subtlety was another pressing issue. Kreuzhain, based off what I had learned from the majority Kreuzhainer portion of students within the college, mostly consisted of highlander dwarves and erdvolker humans. I wouldn¡¯t blend in with the dwarves for obvious biological reasons, and neither would I with the erdvolkers, who often towered over men from other cities and had light golden hair.


    My mind wandered in quite a few directions as to how to best mitigate this. Wild ideas spring forth, from the ridiculous daydreams like forging a steel mask for myself along with iron stilts to walk around with, to the more pragmatic, like perhaps skipping Kreuzhian altogether. After I had put enough thought into it however, I decided that there was no getting around Kreuzhain; I would need the city not just for its supplies, but also for its information. I would need to find my way to Avengard, and I would need a more realistic, grounded understanding of just how the war was developing. Where might I expect pockets of Seviskian occupation? Which roads were being raided, or blocked by encampments from either friend or foe?


    The conclusion I arrived at was a crude one. I stole. One of the Kreuzhainers owned a mantel cloak that he had simply hung on the side of his bed every night. With the hood up, I could cover my hair, and maybe even ward off any open questions about my height. It was a fairly heavy cloak as well, perfect for travel on the open road, and was emblazoned with a crest of a house of some nobility on its back. The House of Heimat. It would have to do.


    Again, what Kazador had said about refugees and thievery rang through my mind¡­but I cast it aside. It¡¯s easy to pass judgement when you come from a rich family of aristocrats and landed nobles. In my place, with the circumstances that fate had dealt unto me, I would argue that any highborn Kreuzhainer would do the same.


    Finally, smithing. The world was turning into a crueler, more dangerous place to be with each passing day. The Lady of Loss had promised me some level of ability, some form of power that she refused to elaborate on, but that was no certainty that I could rely on. The only thing I could feel safe in was in what she had gifted me in that night of divine inspiration - the hand cannon.


    The bulk of the weight in my pack served the purpose of supporting and maintaining my creation. I considered bringing the steel moulds that I had used in the Tinkerer¡¯s Workshop to craft its barrel and blackpowder pot, but they were simply too heavy and unwieldy to carry on the road. I settled with a spare pot that I had crafted with Ceecee, and a schematic that I wrote detailing the measurements I had used for its barrel.


    The iron shot, however, was a burden that I would have to force myself to carry. I loaded a mould that could forge six spheres of shot with each press, along with a small pouch of forged shot. To accompany this, I requisitioned a vial of sulphur, and small bottle of blackpowder. This, I kept in a small satchel along with two waterskins, both of which I would have to make sure to keep full as much as I could. For when I couldn¡¯t rely on the hand cannon, I packed myself a small utility blade as well.


    Sustenance, subtlety, and smithing. I would keep myself fed and healthy in the shadows. If pushed, I would hold my ground with the gift that the Lady had given onto me. This would be the formula from which I would navigate my way back to Avengard and back to Isidora.


    Escaping the campus grounds was much easier than expected. In retrospect, I realize that much of the efforts that were put into guarding the campus were in keeping outsiders and would-be spies looking to steal engineering secrets out. Deserters, as far as the War College was concerned, were not a usual occurrence. Inside, even those as lowly as a Lance were enjoying conditions that almost nobody else anywhere in the Free Cities could take advantage of. Sturdy walls, a steady supply of meals, and some semblance of order.


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    This was the comfort that I was running away from.


    On the road, the rain was a constant nuisance that I was forced to deal with. As soon as I had felt the first drop, I wrapped my satchel of blackpowder in my spare shirt and pair of trousers. I couldn¡¯t risk losing the only ace I had in this dangerous, war-torn world that I was throwing myself into.


    Thick dark clouds blanketed the sky. As I hiked on without the guidance of the sun to guide me westward towards Kreuzhain, I constantly found myself lost and confused. I made a mental note to purchase a map at the city, if possible, assuming that I could find one for a fair price.


    When my family and I had fled on foot from Fleur d¡¯Lain to Avengard, we had quickly learned to follow the most trodden roads whenever we had lost our way. The paths with more footprints and carriage lines were safer and more likely to be guarded by lawmen.


    Now, I didn¡¯t have that option. The heavy rain had washed away any remnants of travel, and the area in between the college and Kreuzhain wasn¡¯t a major thoroughfare for trade. Even if I did have the option, I may have done the opposite; a boy my age traveling by himself on foot was sure to arouse suspicion, especially this close to the War College.


    It was for that reason as well that I avoided fellow travelers along the path. The vast majority of them looked as if they were in dire straits; the young among of them, invariably, would have some injury or missing limb. The elders, on the other hand, all looked frail and sickly, as if they hadn¡¯t had bread in three days. The war had its effects apparent on all.


    And as such, once the sun had fallen and the evening chill had sent, I found myself wanting for a flame, and when I was met with a man tending an open campfire by the wayside, I hid myself behind a brush. Holding the thin branches of a sootbrush and standing behind its thick grey foliage, I observed the man from afar, pondering the decision to approach him or not. After all, he could easily choose to turn me in for a deserter¡¯s bounty.


    The man was definitely in his later ages, judging from his lanky, gaunt figure and wrinkled, sun-baked skin. Leaning against an old log that he used as a camp bench was a suit of battered tin armor. A crest was once emblazoned on its left breast, but from what I could see, only a scratched splotch of colors remained. Yellow, green, and white. Those wouldn¡¯t have been my first guess for a set of Kreuzhain colors, which normally displayed proud crimson, red, and black hues.


    Despite that set of armor, this man didn¡¯t seem like a threat. I inched forward and craned my head over the brush so as to better see him. He did not seem like a violent man. The expression he wore on was face looked kind, almost as if he were gratefully appreciating the warmth of his own fire. He took a swig from a skin that he wore with a thin leather strap across his shoulder as he slowly roasted some hunted game over a small makeshift spit over the flames.


    ¡°You can join me, lad,¡± the old man said.


    I froze. I hadn¡¯t meant to be noticed, I turned back; maybe if I left, he wouldn¡¯t pursue me.


    ¡°I have wine enough to share, and the fire is plenty warm for company. Come and stay a while.¡± His voice sounded as warm as his campfire, and he wore a soft smile as he talked. It was calm, measured, and conveyed a gentle, quiet authority.


    Almost blushing from the embarrassment, I stepped away from the brush and answered him, ¡°You¡¯re very kind, sir. It¡¯s been a cold, wet day, and I couldn¡¯t get a fire to start with damp wood.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because you need more than just wood to start a fire out in the wild,¡± the old man said. He moved further aside on his sitting log, despite there already having been more than enough space.


    ¡°You need to forage for dry kindling yourself. An acorn under thick tree cover, let¡¯s say, and shave it to its core. Once you have a spark goin¡¯ through enough kindling, you can light up any branch or firewood you¡¯ve scrounged up, even the damp ones.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Better yet,¡± he continued, ¡°You could keep some dry kindling on you. I still have some sawdust. Would you like some?¡±


    I almost accepted the offer - the thought of camping some nights without a fire was loathsome - but I thought of the satchels of blackpowder I kept in my pack. The risk of ignition was simply too high, and so I politely refused.


    ¡°Suit yourself then, lad.¡±


    He offered me some of the hare that he was tending over his flame, and I politely refused a second time. ¡°You¡¯re being much too kind,¡± I said. ¡°I couldn¡¯t possibly take more from you, sir. You¡¯ve already given me warmth from your fire, and a kind smile here in the night. I have nothing to offer in return.¡±


    ¡°We all deserve a little bit of kindness, lad,¡± the old man, with an almost melancholic quality in his voice. He took a swig from his skin, which I now realized held wine. Between his choice of roadside beverage and his set of half-plate armor, I reasoned that he must have been fairly well-to-do. ¡°You can call me Quixada, by the way, lad. From the rolling vineyards around Dewdrop.¡±


    Dewdrop, from what I knew, was a small farming town to the north that essentially existed to serve and feed the sprawling city of Fleur d¡¯Lain. From how he introduced himself, it sounded like he hailed from an even smaller village around that area. What, then, was he doing here in the middle of nowhere, so far away from home? However, before I asked him that, I realized that the same could be asked of me, and held my tongue.


    ¡°And you can call me Scipio. From¡­Kreuzhain,¡± I introduced myself along with the story I had conjured for myself. He didn¡¯t seem quite so convinced.


    ¡°Your complexion tells me that you have roots from the east,¡± he said in a careful, measured tone. ¡°Somewhere from the isles. Correct?¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡± He hadn¡¯t quite bought into my story despite the crest of the House of Heimat on my cloak. I could double down on my lie, but my hesitation had already given me away. Still, he didn¡¯t seem to directly contradict my story. ¡°That¡¯s correct.¡±


    ¡°And I understand that in your part of Jatta, you have your own names. Because ¡®Scipio¡¯ as I understand is a southern name, and I imagine you chose it to make it easier on us. But it¡¯s a shame for a man to not be allowed the pleasure of being called his own name.¡± He produced a small wooden pipe from his pack and began to fill it with tabak. Then, he held the pipe close to the fire. ¡°So please, lad, feel free to share your name with me. I promise I¡¯ll give it my best shot in pronouncing it.¡±


    Again, I hesitated. This man, Quixada, was being so forthcoming, so open. I considered refusing him out of sheer suspicion, but then I remembered that back home in Dalintaya, we, too, took kindly to even strangers without delay. Perhaps there were other cultures, too, that weren¡¯t as cold and guarded as the likes of Avengard or Kreuzhain.


    ¡°My name is Lakbayalon,¡± I said, and he mouthed it to himself, attempting to pronounce my name as I had. ¡°But please, call me Scip. I haven¡¯t been to the islands since¡­well, for a long time now. It¡¯s just easier, being Scip.¡±


    ¡°Alright then, lad, Scip, if that¡¯s what you prefer.¡±


    ¡°Are you a knight, Quixada?¡± I asked, before hastily adding, ¡°Ser Quixada?¡± Apart from the obvious clue of his armour, his being a knight would also explain his traveling, and why he hadn¡¯t been consumed by the war effort.


    ¡°I was, of sorts,¡± he answered. I expected him then to elaborate further, to perhaps share his order, but he had simply left it at that. I felt somewhat slighted, with him refraining from explaining after I had just shared my birth name with him after his prodding, but the look in his eyes was devoid of malice. He was simply an old man who knew the things he wanted to talk about, while also understanding which matters he had no joy in chatting about, and I respected that.


    Later that night, he extinguished the campfire and taught me how to bury the coals, so that it wouldn¡¯t be tracked by anyone else on the road, but also to best nourish the different plants and saplings that grew better with ashen fertilizer. To sleep, he taught me to climb a strong coalbark or ashwood tree for their broad, sturdy branches, and how to buckle yourself onto the branch so that you wouldn¡¯t fall off while sleeping through the night. Up there, people were less likely to spot anyone, especially in the night.


    The sun rose to a clear sky, but the heavens were not as blue as I had come to expect. The skies were closer to a dull, light grey than a strong blue, especially when compared to the skies over Avengard, and even more so with the skies over the Isles of Dalintaya.


    ¡°Shows we¡¯re not far from Kreuzhain,¡± Quixada said. ¡°You¡¯re headed to the city, correct? I¡¯ll be there in due time as well, but I have a stop nearby to make.¡±


    ¡°A vineyard?¡± I ventured a guess. ¡°No, a monastery? For knights?¡±


    ¡°A grave,¡± he said simply, and I knew better than to prod for further details.


    ¡°So this is where we part ways, then?¡± I asked.


    ¡°I suppose it is,¡± Quixada said, bringing his pack to his shoulders, the tinplate armour strapped securely on its exterior so that it did not rattle as he moved. ¡°And Scipio?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ser Quixada?¡±


    ¡°Protect yourself on these lands. You¡¯re a far way from home. As am I. And the Seviskians are dropping young men like you, cartload by cartload.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Quixada.¡±


    ¡°Though the world is dim, may the Light guide you, Lakbayalon, and may you remain unseen by those who wish to do you harm, and seen by those who wish you peace.¡± He raised his hand in a sort of salute, or greeting perhaps, that I was not familiar with. Awkwardly, I did the same, and he smiled. ¡°I do not know what you¡¯ve heard from the war, but know that more and more Seviskians are on the wrong side of the Voxen Mountains. If you ever receive word that a Praetor Soulbreaker is within even ten leagues of you, run. And find way to give me word, so that I may ride to meet him.¡±


    ¡°A Praetor?¡± I echoed. Praetors, in Sevisk, were second only to the Emir. There were ten of them, and men in the college had said that they all had yielded their identities, their humanity to the Emir. They were husks of men and orreks alike, and were called by how the Emir moulded them. Soulbreaker. Deathspeaker. Scalebinder.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said plainly, without elaborating on how I would send word to him, or how he thought he would have any chance facing a Praetor. ¡°Farewell now, Scipio. Go with grace, and with my blessing.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Quixada,¡± I said, waving as he began his way on an opposite fork in the road. ¡°Until we meet again.¡±


    And I continued my way to Kreuzhain.

 [13] Oberwinter

    Chapter Thirteen


    Oberwinter


    It would only take another day, thankfully, before arriving at Kreuzhain, and the road had not given me other troubles that would have threatened my travel. By nightfall, the roadsides were filled with more and more fields of wheat and humble stone hovels. In the distance, at one point, I saw a clear path leading up to what I assumed to be a mine.


    As Quixada had instructed, it seemed that I had arrived at the small mining town just a half day¡¯s hike before arriving at Kreuzhain. I had arrived at the colliery village of Oberwinter.


    The town itself was humble. It had no walls protecting it from the outside, nor paved paths for carriages or caravans to follow. Oberwinter was a small town that couldn¡¯t possibly have had more than a few hundred residents.


    That¡¯s the reason why I found myself rather surprised as I saw rows and rows of tents and makeshift shelters surrounding the village¡¯s sturdy stone houses and brick workshops. The people dwelling in them were neither highlander dwarves nor erdvolker men. They looked more slender, more lithe. Based off the stray lines of conversation I could catch, their accents told me that they had come from the east, probably from Fleur d¡¯Lain, or perhaps from the City of Roses.


    It was a familiar sight to me. It was a refugee camp, and these Lainians were seeking protection. It was reasonable to assume that Kreuzhain, then, had rejected them from shelter within their own walls and relegated them to seeking shelter in Oberwinter¡­similar to how Fleur d¡¯Lain had rejected asylum for my own family.


    The Oberwinter residents themselves, from within the ring of their warm homes, seemed colder than the chilled evening air. Wrinkles had set into the parts of their faces they used to scowl and frown, and funnily enough, the only smiles I saw were from the tired and unwashed faces from the tents.


    I approached one of them for information, a young mother who held a sleeping infant with the help of a soothing shawl tied around her shoulder. She couldn¡¯t have been much more than thirty years of age, and she sang a low song in a language I couldn¡¯t understand to her child.


    ¡°Valainn th¡¯leen, oonai sevalai toi harrin,¡± I greeted her, in the simple Lainian that I had picked up from my short stopover in Fleur d¡¯Lain. She smiled in return, and replied in a long string of flowing, singsong Lainian that I could no longer keep pace with.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, my Lainian isn¡¯t that good,¡± I admitted, and she nodded.


    ¡°I was just saying, I did not expect any Kreuzhainer to know even any Lainian at all, not even a bit,¡± she said with a slight accent.


    ¡°Kreuzhainer?¡± I echoed, confused. Oh, she had assumed I was one because of the cloak I wore. ¡°Ah, yes, of course. I had learned some from¡­a Lainian tutor I had, when I was younger. It¡¯s a beautiful language,¡± I lied.


    She nodded and gave me a polite smile in response.


    ¡°I¡¯m not from Oberwinter, however. I¡¯m from the House of Heimat, an engineering clan from the main city. It¡¯s been a while since I¡¯ve been outside the walls. Tell me, how long have you been here?¡±


    Her smile faded. ¡°Two, maybe three months? Too long. We left Roses almost a half year ago now, and still no work. Still no roof over our heads.¡±


    ¡°And what was Roses like before you had left?¡±


    She gave me a stern look now, any goodwill I earned from the Lainian greeting earlier expired. ¡°It was hell. And I do not understand how it is that anyone would think that it will stop at Fleur d¡¯Lain.¡±


    ¡°Is that where the front is, last you heard? At Fleur?¡±


    ¡°Yes, and may the Lady of Light protect its walls.¡±


    When she mentioned the Lady of Light, I had the gut reaction to rebuke her in some way, but instead, I thanked her for the information and headed into what seemed to be the center of Oberwinter. I chose not to ask her for if the village had a tavern or inn deliberately; I did not want to push a discussion on the Kreuzhainers¡¯ sense of hospitality further.


    Having been raised in the Isles of Dalintaya and having been penniless from our flight across continental Jatta, I had never actually been inside of a tavern before. I had seen them from their outside across three different cities, and they always seemed to have a few things similar, regardless of the architecture around that city. There was always a simple painted sign on the outside, a corner on its yard for barrels, and an attempt at frosting on their glass windows. Oberwinter, it seemed, was no different.


    I entered The Forge¡¯s Hearth, and inside, seventy or so dwarves and erdvolkers seemed were sitting in neat rows of chairs, while a stern middle-aged man with a large belly and greying beard held a conversation with the crowd.


    A young woman, standing now from her chair, said, ¡°In a month¡¯s time, winter will be upon us, and their tents won¡¯t hold the heat. They have no hearths to keep them warm.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll manage with the blankets and linens we¡¯ve lent them,¡± the old man said. ¡°Those were gifts that we allowed for them out of the sweat and toil of our own brow. Do they think that we can keep paying, and paying, and paying for their bread? For their shelter?¡±


    ¡°But Roses is occupied by war!¡± the young woman argued, before being drown out by sentiments of dissent and dissatisfaction by the crowd.


    ¡°We¡¯re at war as well!¡± the man said, and the crowd agreed. ¡°And the Ironlords are doing their part in keeping this war machine soldiering on, and so should we. The bread we¡¯re feeding them could be going to our men in the mines so that they can go on for longer. Coalborn, we all do our part.¡±


    ¡°We all do our part,¡± the crowd said back to the man, as if they had said it a thousand times before.


    ¡°Now, we must decide what it is we do with the Lainian girl,¡± the man continued. ¡°The one that stole from the backerei. A very grave offence.¡±


    ¡°Send him back to Roses on the next caravan! In shackles!¡±


    Her parents must pay for what she did!¡±


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.¡°Does she even have parents?¡±


    The crowd¡¯s voices overlapped and fought amongst themselves to be heard, rattling on and on in an attempt to be heard by the middle aged man leading them. Only few stayed quiet, one among them was the young woman who had already shown her dissent. It seemed she knew when she had no hope in being heard, as if it were a learned behaviour that she had already grown familiar with.


    ¡°We already have her in shackles,¡± the old man said with a hint of pride and a pause, as if he were expecting the crowd to applaud him and make their contentment heard. The man stroked his grey beard, putting on a show that he had put a great deal of thought into his words. ¡°She does not deny that he stole the baked goods. Shee admits her crime, and this, we have in a signed affidavit.¡±


    The crowd murmured amongst themselves now, seemingly pleased in the procedures that had been undertaken.


    ¡°One idea I heard from many of you was that we should send her back to Roses on the next caravan,¡± the old man continued. ¡°But that would mean that we are coming then to the problem that there are no more caravans on the direction to Roses. And it would be very costly for our taxes if we were to charter a caravan to Roses for nobody else but the girl. And this will be a problem that we will be having many times with the new migrants finding their refuge in our town.¡±


    The old man paused to let the thought simmer in, and the crowd stayed silent to do the same.


    Then, the old man concluded, ¡°So I¡¯ve sent a letter to our Ironlord in Kreuzhain asking if they would allow us to simply draft our own spearmen and laborers for the war effort. It is a winning solution, yes, we solve the crime and the crowds here in our village, and more get to defend the Free Cities with their hands.¡±


    To my shock, this was met not with discontent, but applause. Around The Forge¡¯s Hearth tavern, tankards of beer were being clinked together, and the old man with the beard may as well have been patting himself on the back for his brilliant solution of solving the refugee problem with wartime policies.


    Once the crowd had celebrated together enough and the old man spoke more hateful words about the war, they settled down, and the tavern broke off into groups and into tables, as if they hadn¡¯t just sentenced dozens of people to a violent death that they had been running from. I took this opportunity to the approach the young erdvolker woman who seemed to be perhaps the only resident in this village with a conscience.


    ¡°Excuse me, I heard what you said earlier,¡± I approached her, sitting alone, nursing her own tankard of beer. She looked deep in thought, as if she were contemplating the exchange she had with that old man in front of everyone else. I couldn¡¯t help but feel that she were wondering if there were something she could have done different, something she could have said.


    She wore a look of surprise on her face when she realized that I was talking to her. Her eyes flitted down to my cloak. ¡°Oh my, a Heimat Houseman. I apologize that I hadn¡¯t noticed you. Please, let me introduce you to the Burgermeister at once so that he can have you settled in the Gasthaus.¡±


    I gave her a perturbed look before I remembered that I was wearing the cloak that I had stolen. I had totally forgotten about the need to keep up appearances.


    ¡°Right, no, yes, of course, I¡­I¡¯ll be speaking to the Burgermeister about that this evening. But first, I wanted to talk to you about something else. About what you had said earlier, during the discussions.¡±


    The woman blushed with a hue of rosy red on her cheeks. It was difficult to read the expression on her face, but it seemed to be something in between embarrassment and perhaps even fear, as if I would chastise or punish her for what she had said. ¡°It was just a few thoughts I was having,¡± she said with a rough, stilted accent. ¡°Please, nothing that needs to be shared with the House of Heimat.¡±


    She was definitely wary, then, of the cloak that I had on my back then. Interesting. ¡°What do you know of the House of Heimat? What reputation do we have here in the village of Oberwinter?¡±


    She looked me in the eyes, trying to assess whether or not this was some sort of test her. ¡°Oberwinter owes a great deal to your house. Much of the coal we mine here goes to the forges that your Forgelords control. For that, of course, we¡¯re very grateful.¡± She chose her words carefully and deliberately.


    ¡°You have our thanks as well,¡± I said, playing along. ¡°I¡¯d like to know more about this Lainian girl you all discussed earlier. The old man, the Burgermeister, he said she was being held in shackles, is that correct? Do you have a dungeon of sorts, a place where you keep criminals?¡±


    Now, she grew more and more suspicious of my intentions, as if she were protective for the girl. ¡°No dungeon. We didn¡¯t have many criminals, at least, before the Lainians had arrived. She¡¯s being kept¡­she¡¯s being kept in the cellar below here, in the tavern. But please, what are you going to do with her? She only stole some bread and some grain, you know, nothing too heinous.¡±


    ¡°I understand. I just want to make sure she¡¯s being taken care of. Same as you.¡±


    She frowned now, her forehead creasing, not finding my words comforting nor worthy of her trust. ¡°Excuse me, Houseman, but may I ask which district of Kreuzhain you are from? Your complexion is very strange, and not something I¡¯ve seen from the House of Heimat previously¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a long story,¡± I dismissed her. ¡°And unfortunately, I need to go now, to go see your Burgermeister. Have a beautiful evening.¡± Before she could ask anything further, I inquired with the tavernkeeper about the Lainian girl, and after a small flourish of the crest on my cloak, he led me down to the cellar.


    The stairs leading and spiraling downwards into the earth were narrow and cramped even for me, which meant that this must have been extremely difficult for the taller, wider erdvolkers to use. The cellar itself was windowless, filled with cobwebs, and the air was old, stagnant, and chilled, like a seacave beneath the shore.


    There were only two lit lamps in the cellar. Both of them were by the corner, where there sat a frail Lainian girl, shackled to a wooden pillar. Her face and hair were both grimy, almost as dirty as the frilly clothes she wore which looked like they, at a time, may have once held a semblance of the color cream or white. On the floor, a few feet away from her, a Lainian lyre was propped up against the wall.


    The tavernkeeper made a motion as if he were about to ask me something, but after a moment, thought better of it. Perhaps he was concerned about what a ranking Kreuzhainer Houseman would want to do with a Lainian girl-thief in shackles¡­but he was not concerned enough, it seemed, as he made his way back upstairs to the tavern, leaving me with her.


    ¡°You¡¯ve come all the way here to deliver me to die on the front, then?¡± the girl asked, mockingly in a singsong Lainian accent. ¡°I didn¡¯t even know the Legion of Free Cities took spearwomen. I heard you from down here, you know, these floorboards aren¡¯t made of stone.¡±


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t me.¡±


    ¡°Oh yes, I¡¯ve heard this one! It wasn¡¯t you, it was your officer, or one of your Ironlords, or some directive from Duar D¡¯aldin. And that¡¯s why you couldn¡¯t take more Lainians into the walls of Kreuzhain, or why you suddenly have the right to decide who can stay with their family and who has to fight for whoever else.¡± She spat on the floor.


    It stung. Her words were all too familiar. Isidora, my parents and I had been rejected from the protection of a city¡¯s walls once as well. During times of struggle, borders could feel more like a siegemarshall¡¯s palisades.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a Kreuzhainer. Valainn th¡¯leen, oonai sevalai toi harrin.¡± I pulled down the hood from my cloak, showing off my dark, Dalintayan hair. ¡°I¡¯m not even from the mainland,¡± I explained, referring to continental Jatta. ¡°I¡¯m a refugee, same as you. A foreigner, same as you. My name¡¯s¡­well, you can call me Scipio. Or Scip.¡±


    Her eyes widened, and her lips curled into an amused smile. ¡°And I¡¯m Vaelora. Did you slit a Kreuzhainer¡¯s neck for that cloak, or what?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a long story. But no, nothing like that.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if you understand how the world works around this region of Jatta, but that cloak you have on, with that crest¡­it¡¯s not a small thing you¡¯ve stolen.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°And trust me, I¡¯m somewhat of an authority here when it comes to understanding what can and can¡¯t be stolen.¡±


    That one coaxed a laugh out of me, unexpectedly. The girl - Vaelora - obviously had a sharp tongue on her. It couldn¡¯t have possibly helped her in the predicament she found herself in, especially with the famously humourless Kreuzhainers.


    ¡°So, Scipio, refugee, foreigner, just like me,¡± she rhymed in a makeshift melody, ¡°are you going to help me escape a violent death as the Free Cities¡¯ first spearwoman, or did you just come all the way here to Oberwinter to gloat about your new clothes?¡±


    I fished a metal wire from my satchel, similar to the one I had used to break into Kazador¡¯s personal chest. ¡°Lucky for you, I just happen to know a thing or two about locks.¡±

 [14] Everyone Deserves Their Own Cathedral

    Chapter Fourteen


    Everyone Deserves Their Own Cathedral


    ¡°Are you sure you don¡¯t want to tell anyone?¡± I asked Vaelora, as we made our way onto the Ironlords¡¯ Road heading to Kreuzhain from Oberwinter in the dead of night. As it turned out, sneaking out an unshackled prisoner from a small village of only a few hundred  was just as simple as it seemed.


    ¡°My parents, they are long gone. If I told any of the others¡­They would be guilty of having let me escape. And that¡¯s a punishment I would not want to give to anyone. Everyone there fled for a good reason. They should not have to be carrying spears for the Free Cities after all that we¡¯ve been through.¡± Vaelora crossed her arms over her chest and fixed her gaze forward as she walked and talked. She sounded emotional, as if she were at the brink of bursting into tears after each syllable, though I suppose that could be fairly common for Lainians. Definitely moreso than Kreuzhainers, at the very least.


    ¡°Heavy decision to make,¡± I said. She quickened her step now, walking just a few paces ahead of me. ¡°Difficult to just choose to restart your whole life alone.¡±


    ¡°Alone?¡± she echoed over her shoulder. Suddenly, she sounded much more cheery. ¡°Of course not, I¡¯ll be traveling with you.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Obviously,¡± she said without any hint of irony.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯d be wise, but-¡°


    ¡°Where are you even going?¡± Vaelora turned to face me now, walking backwards. She seemed to be fleet of foot. The Lainian girl pointed at my pack and said, ¡°You¡¯ve brought a lot of things with you on your back there just to be taking a little hike around the little villages across Kreuzhain for a fun stroll. So you must be going somewhere.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just going to Kreuzhain. That¡¯s all, to find work,¡± I lied.


    ¡°And so you¡¯ve started your new working life as a Kreuzhainer breaking a foreigner out? From the closest mining village to the city? I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s going to help you find work.¡± She widened her eyes. ¡°And your poor lying skills certainly won¡¯t help either.¡±


    I grimaced. ¡°I don¡¯t have to tell you anything, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    ¡°Then I won¡¯t have to tell you how to get on a caravan to wherever it is you¡¯re going.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re kidding,¡± I dismissed her. ¡°I don¡¯t know how it is you do things over at Roses, but here, they don¡¯t let just anyone on a caravan without a fair stack of coin. Five, maybe seven, Royals at least. At least! Especially with the war going on.¡±


    ¡°The lowest I¡¯ve seen a seat on a caravan go for is eight Royals, my friend,¡± she said, smiling. ¡°But as for how we¡¯re getting on, we won¡¯t need coin.¡± She grabbed her lyre from her side with both hands, flipped it, and held it up to me. ¡°We have this.¡±This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    I squinted for a better look. On the lyre¡¯s back, carved right into the lacquered wood, was an insignia depicting two little songbirds flanking a harp on a field of roses. Then, I read the little inscription underneath. ¡°That¡¯s a Free City Badge¡­you¡¯re from the College of Bards.¡±


    ¡°Exactoui,¡± she answered in Lainian. ¡°The College of Bards, which was founded in the City of Roses, allow me to remind you. And I¡¯m sure I don¡¯t need to remind you that with the Badge, I should have some sway with any caravan on Free City roads.¡±


    I raised my eyebrows, impressed. She had clearly put in some work. Even Lances at the War College didn¡¯t receive badges until at least a few years of actual field work. ¡°If you had the badge, why did you steal bread from that village?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t steal anything from that tiny little town!¡± she defended herself. ¡°I took a fair share to be given to everyone in the tents who needed it. A fair share, I¡¯ll remind you. Only two loaves. And when I got into an argument with that baker, I showed him the badge, and it seemed to only infuriate him more! As if he were offended that a refugee were more educated than him.¡± She spat on the roadside, clearly fuming. Her light footsteps turned into stilted stamps into the soil.


    ¡°I see.¡± In place of condescending Kreuzhainer bakers, I pictured the Grand Marshal, and the Arch-sapper, and the Forgemaster. ¡°I can see how that would be frustrating. That¡¯s tough.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s their tiny little minds that I find frustrating,¡± she clarified. ¡°As if they can¡¯t picture how it is to be forced out of their homes. As if they can¡¯t imagine a world outside the walls of brick and walls of mortar that they¡¯ve dug their heels into.¡±


    She had a point. Somehow, she found the words to express what it was that I had been feeling in the War College for six months now, though from a Lainian Bard, I suppose I shouldn¡¯t have been surprised at all. ¡°But still, I don¡¯t think we should travel together. Even if you do get on your caravan, I doubt they¡¯ll take me on as well. It¡¯ll be more difficult if it¡¯s the two of us traveling together. Anyway, you have the badge for yourself already. Why don¡¯t you just go on and head somewhere safe? Somewhere south maybe, like Berryton?¡±


    Vaelora gave me a quizzical look. ¡°Run? Again? No thank you, I¡¯ve seen that respect seems like it¡¯s something that needs to be earned, and I don¡¯t earn that by running somewhere safe. There is injustice in this world, and I want to see it, so that I can write the song that will sound from hearth to home to correct it.¡± She strummed a chord on her lyre, and the chord spoke promises of hope and resolve. ¡°And traveling with you, I think, will bring me closer to that song.¡±


    ¡°Me? How did you figure that?¡±


    ¡°You saw an injustice, and you corrected it. Simple as that.¡±


    I found it difficult to argue against that.


    ¡°Your silence is good. It means you agree with me,¡± she said. ¡°And I¡¯ll turn that silence into our journey. And our journey into that song.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a lot of expectation you¡¯re putting onto yourself, writing that song.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s all I need in life, and it¡¯s something I can create myself. Again, simple as that.¡±


    Simple as that.


    She quickened her pace yet again, striding many steps ahead of me now, as if she were leading me herself on the road to Kreuzhain. And as she walked, she plucked chords from her lyre, and those chords turned into cheerful, joyful music.


    And as she sang, I realized that her song was her cathedral, the same way for her, my cathedral would be her song. It¡¯s what led her through the flight from Roses to Oberwinter, and it¡¯s what was still leading her now. And I realized again that it had been weeks since I had last thought of building my cathedral. Months since I had last put a quill to paper to sketch what its steeple would look like, rather than how to build a siege rampart, or smooth the bore of a hand cannon.


    And as she sang, I realized that everyone deserves their own cathedral.


    And so I followed her on that road to Kreuzhain, her music guiding the path the whole way there.

 [15] A Steady Metallic Beat

    Chapter Fifteen


    A Steady Metallic Beat


    My first sight of the city-state capitol of Kreuzhain were the pockets of tents and lines of desperate masses being held from the city¡¯s massive blackbrick walls by huge, heavily armoured erdvolk men. The contrast between pointed, iron spires of forge smokeshafts and crenelated turrets to the dozens of different races of peoples without shelter nor comfort was striking. While some reached for the heavens, it seemed others rested on the dirt.


    ¡°How are we going to get in?¡± I asked Vaelora, as we shuffled slowly towards the city¡¯s eastern gate. From what we were able to observe, only Kreuzhainers, supply caravans, and merchants with the proper documents were passed on through the gate and into the city by the erdvolkers.


    ¡°Leave the talking to me,¡± she said. ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m here, right? Accompanying a wealthy Heimat houseman.¡±


    We inched further and further to the east gate. The guards wore a crest of a tall bastion protected by two turrets on their thick leather gambesons, and I couldn¡¯t help but notice that each and every one of them were both stout and especially tall, even for an erdvolker.


    The famine, it seems, had not reached the borderguards of Kreuzhain, and they seemed proud of it. Banners and tapestries boasting their crest and artistic renditions of the border guards over the centuries covered the eastern watch tower, hanging over windows and over its arches. It took me a moment before I spotted even one banner flying the colors of Kreuzhain without any mention of the border.


    ¡°A pretty arrogant group of people, then, don¡¯t you think?¡± Vaelora said, having followed my gaze towards the heavily decorated watch tower. ¡°They remind me of the minstrels from my college, except with a much worse sense for style.¡±


    ¡°These people are obviously very happy about the fact that they can keep people out of their walls. What of dragons and siege engines, I wonder?¡±


    ¡°Keep your voice down,¡± Vaelora hissed at me. ¡°Words like that won¡¯t help our passage through.¡±


    I grunted in acknowledgment. She was right, of course, and I knew that, but still, I felt pangs of envy and jealousy stir within me as I thought of all the Kreuzhainers who had never known what it felt like to be forced out of their home. Who, instead of nourishing Jatta for the better with their excess, chose to use those spoils to raise their walls and deepen their footing.


    When I was a child, whenever my father would return with a handful of pearls that he had quarried, he would share our evening broth with the neighbors ¡ª because as those who had more than enough, it was our responsibility to help those who did not. That was what he taught me.


    ¡°We all do our part, Houseman,¡± the burly, broad-shouldered border guard greeted us as we took a step towards him.


    ¡°We all do our part,¡± Vaelora answered on my behalf. I was lost in thought, and her tongue was just naturally quicker. ¡°You¡¯re keeping a long line here. Rather inefficient, no? Have you considered sending for another pair of guards for help?¡±


    The burly man was obviously taken aback. ¡°I¡­I¡¯ll be the one asking questions here. For example, your strong accent. What is a Lainian girl doing here with a Houseman?¡±


    Vaelora swung her lyre from her side to her front and plucked three strings slowly, playing a simple harmony. Then, she flipped the lyre and brandished her Free City Badge, just as she did to me. ¡°Everyone knows where to look if you want someone to carry a tune for a party. The House sent for me. Matthias here,¡± Vaelora said, as she pulled at my sleeve, ¡°was the lucky houseman chosen to come fetch me.¡±


    The borderguard gave me an inquisitive look. ¡°And would you have your house papers, Matthias?¡±


    Answering him would be problematic. Avengard and Kreuzhain shared the same tongue in Commonspeak, but my accent was far from that of a noble houseman. Not answering him, however, would be equally problematic.


    ¡°Are you asking a houseman for his papers?¡± Vaelora began. ¡°Are you blind, or have you lost all respect for the Heimats? I¡¯ll-¡°


    ¡°You¡¯ve blocked the port holes from the tower with your banners, guardling,¡± I said as sternly as I could muster. ¡°Whichever stonemason wasted the sweat and effort to build that tower designed it so that the guardlings inside could see. There, there, and there,¡± I said as I pointed out each visibility port with a view obstructed by cloth and tapestry.


    ¡°A minor offense,¡± the guard conceded. He didn¡¯t seem to notice the accent. Too busy defending himself.


    ¡°Perhaps. And a layman on the street might think that the error¡¯s on account of your loyalty. Or of your pride. But I¡¯m no layman, guardling, I hail from the Heimats, and I understand how turning brick and mortar into a city works. It must be as dark as night in there with all the ports blocked. You expect me to believe you and your friends are so proud as to bother with torchsmoke in the middle of the day? Just to show off your colors?¡± I scoffed. ¡°No, you¡¯ve put up those banners to hide yourselves from the world in that tower. How many guards in that tower are being paid for their shift right now? And what sorts of extortion have you pulled behind those shuttered windows?¡±


    ¡°Messr, I assure you, I have no idea what it is you speak of,¡± the guard said urgently through grit teeth. ¡°But please, move along. You¡¯re holding up the queue, and I¡¯d like to do my job.¡±


    ¡°Do not delay a Heimat houseman again,¡± I told him, pointing a finger in his direction, as Vaelora urged us both along.


    ¡°We all do our part!¡± she yelled over her shoulder to the guard, the pair of us already two steps into the city. With the guard out of earshot, Vaelora whispered to me, ¡°Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you are a good liar.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I answered. ¡°I only know how to build things.¡±


    ¡ª


    For the first time, Kreuzhain loomed before me, and perhaps part of me began to understand just how it is that the likes of Kazador and his ilk grew to become so arrogant and prideful of their home.


    The walls of Kreuzhain rose like imposing cliffsides flanking a valleyed highway. They were made of granite and local blackbrick, and reinforced further with riveted steel and iron. Many buildings, those that I presumed to be factories, forges, and fabricators, had their facades augmented by twisting, creaking, turning brass gears, part of some larger mechanism that must have taken teams of masons to design.


    Vaelora stifled a fit of coughs into her sleeve. The air was poor. In the brightest time of the day, it felt as if it were dawn, with gas-lamp lanterns strewn across the street already lit. Overhead, we were below two cloud ceilings. One mass of grey cloud cover over the heavens, and one of black floating soot directly underneath. ¡°Charming place,¡± she remarked.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Around us, erdvolker men and coal-streaked dwarves made their way up and down the stone-cobbled streets. Each and every one of them walked with purpose. The center of the paths, however, were dominated by long twin iron rails that lined the city. Then, a horseless carriage made of iron carrying a large wooden barrel pushed up the street, riding the rails, with passengers in expensive-looking clothing inside. Impressive. In the War College, we weren¡¯t even allowed to read the schematics for the rail.


    Across the horizon, we saw one brightly lit spire that dominated the skyline. We made our way towards that spire; it was as good a direction as any. I quickly realized that that spire could not have been anything but the smokestack of the Grand Forge of Kreuzhain, the crown jewel of industry and machinery. Even from afar, we could see the bright glint of flowing molten lava being redirected from the tower into its forges and hearths. This was the heart of the war effort, if there could only be one spot in Jatta. There, almost every Free City spearhead, arrow tip, and breastplate found its origin in one way or another.


    We turned a corner, and on that corner stood an iron bloomery, meant for refining and smelting raw iron ore from its base oxides into usable smithery ingots. A team of five laborers, each equipped with heavy leather aprons, tinted goggles, and protective gloves, took turns retrieving refined ingots from the pit and letting it fall onto a cast steel shelf.


    Clank! Clank! Clank! Each ingot retrieved from the pit contributed to a steady metallic beat of superheated metal, and each worker committed themselves to keeping that beat steady. A consistent stream of quality metal, to then be worked on by an equally efficient and competent team of Kreuzhainer smiths.


    Suddenly, a wooden carriage pulled by two pack mules parks itself by the bloomery, and a team of workers disembark, each carrying sacks of raw ore. More fuel for the Kreuzhain machine.


    It seemed like everything in this city was built with much purpose. I suppose that they didn¡¯t see much purpose, then, in the lines of humanity that they kept at bay outside the walls.


    ¡°No need to look so grim now, Scipio,¡± Vaelora said, digging at my side with her elbow. ¡°We¡¯ll be out of here soon enough. Just need to find the right caravan.¡±


    ¡°All of the skill and expertise in the world, and I don¡¯t believe I¡¯ve seen a bleaker place,¡± I remarked.


    ¡°Just a bit of patience now, Scipio.¡±


    We spotted a tavern that seemed to be just as good as any. The Metal Bear would have been considered a fairly sizable establishment in most cities, even in Avengard, at three storeys in height, but it looked as if it were the most humble structure on the stretch of path it was built on. The sign was made of pure metal, from what I could tell, most likely an iron plate treated with a sheen of copper, and engraved with the name and the visage of a bear wielding a smith¡¯s hammer atop an anvil.


    Inside, the ground floor was somewhat smaller than I had anticipated. There were only ten or so tables, but at least fifty patrons crammed in, with more than half of them smoking tabac through either pipe or paper. As a result, the air was heavily tinged with the earth grunge of smoked tabac, and I could barely keep my eyes open. It was hard to tell if the air was worse off inside the tavern or out in the city.


    ¡°Vaelora, you should know that I¡¯m still wary of your intentions in traveling with me, but you should know this: I¡¯ve never exactly set foot in a tavern before,¡± I whispered to her.


    ¡°Scipio, thank you again for making your distrust clear. But this time - for real this time! - perhaps you can leave the talking to me.¡±


    I nodded stiffly. Brushing shoulders with towering erdvolkers and stout, heavy-set dwarves smoking tabac and drinking laced beer intimidated me just as much as being sized up by the border guards, if not more. In such a tight space, I kept a hand on my satchel. The last thing I wanted was for the hand cannon to slip out and end up in the hands of a drunk with an idea.


    The tavern itself was decorated as if it were a hunting lodge out in the Southern Mountain Range. Two animal heads were mounted above a stone hearth - one of a bear, and one of a quazir. Above the barkeep and his array of tanks and rows of spirits was the barrel of the cannon, though its breech and vent field looked to be filled with sand and smelted unusable. By the looks of it, the design seemed to be half a century old. The tables, stools and benches in The Metal Bear seemed to be just about the same age as well.


    ¡°We all do our part, barkeep,¡± Vaelora called at the pot-bellied man pouring beer into two wooden tankards he held in one big meaty hand.


    He raised the other in acknowledgment, and answered, ¡°We all do our part, and I¡¯ll do mine once you give me a moment, yeah?¡± He glanced over his shoulder to give us a look and a nod, then went back to pouring the two beers, before whisking them off to a group of barrel-chested men on the opposite end of the bar.


    ¡°Typical tavern troll behaviour,¡± Vaelora spoke to me in a low voice. ¡°Always spoiling their regulars. Every ¡®keep in Roses was the same.¡±


    It was not the barkeep that approached us next, but three men from the group that he had just served. The lead one of the three, the shortest of them and with unpleasant looking warts over his neck and jaw, placed a heavy, unwelcome hand on my shoulder, and in a heavy accent, said, ¡°You¡¯re naught but rust in my gear in a place like this.¡±


    ¡°What was that?¡± Vaelora asked, turning to face the three. ¡°I didn¡¯t understand a single word your friend here just said.¡±


    ¡°He said that he doesn¡¯t like either of you,¡± the tallest of the three answered. His breath smelled of beer, spirit, and a venomous distrust of strangers. ¡°And I don¡¯t like either of you either.¡±


    ¡°Okay then, I suppose you don¡¯t have to like us. My friend and I are just here for a beer, and then we¡¯ll be off,¡± I said as I attempted to nudge the short man¡¯s hand off my shoulder, to no avail.


    ¡°We¡¯ll take your heads off for you,¡± the third man threatened us. ¡°We don¡¯t like the Heimats around here.¡±


    ¡°Your tongue sounds like it was hammered in the wrong forge,¡± the short man said. ¡°Why do you speak like that, Houseman?¡±


    ¡°Diplomats to Fleur d¡¯Lain speak as they wish,¡± Vaelora interjected. ¡°So leave the two of us to our business, and go on your way, then.¡±


    ¡°A diplomat?¡± the tall one echoed. ¡°To ¡®Lain? I knew it. You Heimats are selling the whole forge then, eh? Bringing them in, dropping the gates? Soot-ridden dogs!¡± he screamed as he swung a wild left hand at me, catching me right in the jaw. Suddenly, the ground rose up to meet me, and I fell face-first into the filthy wooden planks on The Metal Bear¡¯s floor.


    ¡°You thugs!¡± Vaelora yelled, as she took a back-step, just in time to dodge another swing from the tall, drunken man. In reply, she swiped at a half-full tankard from another patron and threw it at him, drenching him in laced beer.


    ¡°He¡¯s already drunk, you¡¯re only going to make it worse!¡± I shouted, struggling to speak through a fractured jaw and struggling to regain my footing.


    Neither of the man¡¯s two friends liked that, and the shorter of the two heaved a wooden stool up as if he were Avenor wielding his warhammer, and he brought it crashing down onto me.


    My vision flashed white, and waves of excruciating pain throbbed throughout my skull. Already, I could feel a hot, wet stream of blood begin to leak down my hairline over my ear.


    Vaelora ate a swing to the stomach as well, but swiped away at two more wild attempts for her. ¡°We get it, we¡¯re leaving, we¡¯re leaving!¡±


    ¡°The flames you¡¯re not!¡± the tall man screamed, as more men from his group across the bar joined the trio. The short man raised the stool yet again, still wet with blood, eyes set on Vaelora with murderous intent.


    I slipped the hand cannon out of my satchel and raised it, and prepared to snap my fingers to activate the Flintstrike Gloves¡­


    An arm clad in an iron gauntlet pounded on the stool as the drunkard held it overhead, then twisted it in such a way that it came crashing down on him and most of his friends. Then, that man, wearing a suit of half-plate armour, pushed him away, creating space for Vaelora and myself to breathe and make our exit.


    One of the drunkards swung for him. The plated man caught his swing, and carried the momentum, throwing the drunkard over the counter, flailing into a tankard of beer. Another threw a plate at him, which he deflected with his gauntlet.


    ¡°What are you waiting for, Scipio? Leave!¡± he bellowed, before he shoved another man off his feet. He was expertly using the clumsiness and drunkenness of our assailants against them, constantly keeping a barricade of men with unsteady footing as a barrier from each fresh new attack.


    ¡°Quixada?¡± I recognized him, finally.


    ¡°We¡¯ll catch up outside, lad,¡± Quixada replied, blocking another blow with his gauntlet. In my confusion, I still had my eyes on the middle aged man, defending himself against a group of five, as Vaelora pulled me by sleeves all the way out the door.

 [16] The Pile of Bones

    Chapter Sixteen


    The Pile of Bones


    My head was pounding as Vaelora dragged me out of The Metal Bear. I kept my hand pressed on my head right atop my ear, trying to keep pressure on the steady flow of my own blood. They had taught us many things in the War College of Engineering, but not even the most rudimentary of first aid.


    Perhaps some knowledge of such would have saved my eye, or perhaps even Delmar after his fall.


    ¡°I¡¯m not¡­I¡¯m not feeling so great,¡± I managed to say, as I struggled to hobble along and keep pace with Vaelora.


    ¡°Who was that man?¡± she asked as she stopped to comb through my hair, trying to get a clear view of my wound. ¡°He didn¡¯t look like he was from here.¡±


    ¡°He was a knight. Or well, is a knight. I don¡¯t know,¡± I managed to say before groaning in pain. ¡°Your fingers! Get them off, you¡¯re splitting my head in two.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m keeping them there for a reason, drell, you¡¯ll leak like a teapot without it,¡± she explained. I winced. The imagery didn¡¯t exactly shore up my constitution. ¡°Grab a sock from your rucksack. We can use it to stuff the opening.¡±


    ¡°Must it be a sock?¡±


    ¡°I left Oberwinter from a cell with nothing but my lyre, Scipio, you¡¯re the one who chose to head off on a hike without packing a bandage.¡± She had a point. I handed her a sock, and I groaned as she crudely pressed down on it, stemming the wound. ¡°Here, hold onto this. It should clot in just a bit¡­I think.¡±


    The Metal Bear¡¯s double doors swung open, and out came a tall, lanky man with graying hair and ornate half-plate armour.


    ¡°Ser Quixada!¡± I called after him, drawing his attention, and he came to Vaelora and myself.


    ¡°That was a nasty hit you took to the dome right there, lad. Still yourself now, wounds to the head always bleed more than the rest. Let¡¯s move slowly now, off to the Square. You can rest easier there,¡± he advised me. He looked to Vaelora. ¡°You must be his traveling companion, then?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I answered.


    ¡°Yes, exactly,¡± she corrected me. ¡°The gash to his head is open, but I think the bandage is clotting the flow nicely.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a sock,¡± I said.


    ¡°It¡¯s a bandage,¡± she corrected me again. ¡°Anything can be a bandage as long as the situation is desperate enough.¡±


    ¡°That it was, lass. You two shouldn¡¯t have tangled with those men. They saw your cloak, Scip, and they didn¡¯t take kindly to the sight of you. The Heimats and Stolzes aren¡¯t exactly on the best of terms at the moment.¡±


    The throbbing in my head lent itself well to the pounding of my ears, and I had to strain my focus to hear him. Or, perhaps, some portion of me didn¡¯t quite believe what he had just said. ¡°Apologies, the Heimats and which house?¡±


    ¡°House Stolz of Kreuzhain.¡±


    Kazador¡¯s house.


    ¡°What sort of quarrel do they have with one another?¡± Vaelora asked. ¡°Which house can keep more Lainians out of the walls? Which house can fell more trees, perhaps? If the houses here can¡¯t even get in line, how are the Free Cities going to?¡±


    Quixada pursed his lips. It was obvious that he agreed with Vaelora¡¯s sentiment. ¡°It¡¯s a difficult situation here in the Iron City, lass, that much, anyone would agree on. I don¡¯t know how long it is the two of you have been within the walls, but every single soul here is on edge. Especially the houses.¡±


    ¡°What happened?¡± I asked, with my hand still pressing a sock down my head.


    ¡°From what I¡¯ve heard and how I understand it, House Heimat is¡­more proactive than the other Royal Houses. More impatient, some would say, or more eager. They prefer bold moves a fair bit more than the other houses, and so they brought in help. A magick-wielder. A powerful sorceress,¡± Ser Quixada said, letting the words stew. ¡°But then, some days after that sorceress had arrived in the city, a terrible attack happened. A patriarch of House Stolz was killed, murdered in his sleep.¡±


    ¡°And they assume it was House Heimat, then?¡± Vaelora asked. ¡°Not Sevisk? How does that make sense?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t quite know myself, lass, all I know is what¡¯s been told to me,¡± Quixada conceded. ¡°I do know that there has been quite some history between the two houses. More to this feud than meets the eye. But that¡¯s not the end to it.¡±


    ¡°More than an assassination and a dead patriarch?¡± I asked.


    ¡°These are difficult times, yes. You see, House Stolz gathered all their housemen, and all their banners¡¯ housemen, and they surrounded the Heimats, baying for justice. Baying for their sorceress to be tried and put to justice,¡± Quixada paused, considering his next words. ¡°Do you know how I know that sorceress was a great woman, and not just a powerful magick-wielder?¡±


    ¡°Did she defeat them all?¡± Vaelora asked. ¡°Pull a giant comet from the sky, just like in the stories?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Quixada answered. ¡°She offered herself to the Stolzes. No blood was shed that day. Not a single wet sword nor even a scratch on a single houseman. And that¡¯s also how I know that the assassination was not hers. Why stay in the city and offer yourself to your target¡¯s house once you¡¯ve done your job?¡±


    We reached the main city square. A large iron sign with raised lettering proclaimed its name - The Kreuzplatz. The center of the square was dominated by a large marble fountain with a towering brass obelisk, and behind it was the parliament building, standing directly across the Holy Temple of the Forgelord. This square alone, I reckoned, was built with more steel, brass, and iron than what passed through the War College of Engineering in ten or more years. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    The cobblestones were worn with footfall and gear oil, and wagons, people, and beasts of burden darted about the pathways, weaving in and out of each other¡¯s way. Small market stalls were propped up selling various forms of equipment, and each of them displayed their permit to sell goods in the square proudly, front and center.


    Right by the fountain, a town crier stood atop a small parapet and rattled off news and propaganda about the war effort. It was difficult to tell which was which, and a crowd of Kreuzhainers had gathered around him in the futile attempt to tell them apart.


    Somehow, the air here felt even more toxic and constricting than it did in the rest of the city, though the smog seemed no thicker than anywhere else.


    ¡°This sorceress,¡± Vaelora started, ¡°does she have a name? There are very few magick-wielders alive outside of Sevisk that would be powerful enough to draw such attention. Enough so that it seems that half of Kreuzhain seems to be warring with itself over her.¡±


    ¡°Those who I asked gave me many names,¡± answered Quixada. ¡°Some were more dramatic than the others. The composer Jeanne Rimbaud, from Fleur d¡¯Lain, are you familiar with her?¡±


    ¡°Of course!¡± Vaelora answered enthusiastically.


    ¡°Some said this sorceress was the manifestation of her seventh symphony. That this sorceress was she who inspired her to compose The Nocturne¡¯s Veil. Others called her other names - names like The Mistweaver, or Eclipsebinder. They made her sound like a Named Seviskian Praetor, even.¡±


    ¡°Is that why the Stolzes were suspicious of her, then? The names that she brought along with her?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Maybe. Perhaps. If what they say is true, then she could easily be as powerful as a praetor, if not stronger.¡±


    ¡°So what name do you call her?¡± Vaelora asked.


    ¡°There was only one name, one actual name that was consistent from each Kreuzhainer I asked.¡±


    ¡°What was it?¡± Vaelora and I asked Quixada at the same time.


    ¡°Nyx. The elf witch Nyx.¡±


    Nyx!


    My mind raced back to that night in Avengard as the dragon Ignisclaw led Sevisk¡¯s first raid over the walled city, the night that my mother had died, and the night that Lady of Loss had first made herself felt to me. That night that as I raced to the tents to meet my mother and sister, I saw the only point of force that posed any threat to Sevisk¡¯s scaled beast.


    ¡°I am Nyx, and I have loved these lands that you now ravage.¡±


    The sorceress Nyx had fought back against Ignisclaw with no support, with no expectation of help nor reward. And she had fought well.


    ¡°We need to go rescue her,¡± Vaelora said, before I could form the words myself. ¡°What they all say is true, and more. I studied her, in the College of Bards. We all did. Those are no mere legends, but accolades. She was the tip of the spear that saved Fleur d¡¯Lain and bound the Starless King. She could help us fight back. She could turn even a Praetor away.¡±


    ¡°I saw her in Avengard,¡± I said, and immediately, Vaelora and Quixada turned their attention to me. ¡°She was there the night that Sevisk ran their first raid on the city. The dragon Ignisclaw flew overhead, and she loosed a bolt of magick so potent that it felled the beast to the earth.¡±


    ¡°The legends are true,¡± Vaelora whispered again, more to herself as a means of reassurance rather than a statement directed towards Quixada or myself.


    ¡°So they are,¡± Quixada mumbled. ¡°But I am no knight anymore, young lad and young lass. I am much too old, and even that scuffle at the bar has taken more than its fair toll of me. This is a star that the two of you will need to follow yourselves.¡±


    ¡°But you need to go with us, Ser Knight!¡± Vaelora argued. ¡°We know nobody in this city, and we¡¯ll get nowhere as a Lainian and this scruffy boy with a Heimat cloak.¡±


    ¡°You two will get the hang of it out there yourselves. Adding this pile of bones wrapped in a tin suit won¡¯t bring you any further.¡±


    ¡°Please, Ser Quixada, we need you. Vaelora and I, everything we know¡¯s been born out of a book or lecture. Schools of thought and nothing more. This city will chew us up and spit us out, just as it did in the tavern,¡± I pleaded.


    ¡°How did you even find us there?¡± Vaelora asked.


    ¡°Intuition,¡± he answered shiftily, eyes darting to the floor. Quixada too, it seemed, was not a good liar. ¡°I was just in the area.¡±


    ¡°If there¡¯s one thing they taught us in the College of Bards, it¡¯s how to spin a good lie, and that was not one of them,¡± Vaelora quipped.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he conceded. ¡°It was the Blessing I placed on the young lad here. I didn¡¯t think it would come of any use when I had cast it on him, but today, I suppose my caution came to bear fruit.¡±


    ¡°That was a Blessing?¡± I asked, and he nodded.


    ¡°Then you are no mere knight!¡± Vaelora concluded confidently. ¡°You draw sacred power. A conduit of divine intervention. You¡¯re a paladin!¡±


    Quixada raised his hand, attempting to calm Vaelora and lower her voice. He did not want any more unwanted attention from the masses, it seems, especially after having had explained his understanding of the conflict between the Heimats and the Stolzes.


    Before we could press the issue further, a large crowd had gathered around the town crier stood by the fountain, and their murmuring and chatter drew our attention. They all seemed to listen intently to the town crier, which meant that news about the war must have been coming into the city.


    The three of us shared a look, and we allowed the issue on the table to pass for now. News of the world at large, after all, was precious and scarce. I wanted to know about Isidora and what challenges she may have been facing alone to the east. I could tell that Vaelora was eager to hear of the state of the City of Roses, or at least Fleur d¡¯Lain as well.


    The town crier was a male littling. Instead of being stood on just one wooden box, he stood on three. I was immediately reminded of Ceecee, and how she would need to stand on something similar just to reach the surface of her workbench. I hoped that she was still well in the War College.


    The crier¡¯s voice was loud and clear, and he was flanked by two dwarves of the Iron Watch. He must have been protected so well because of the amulet he wore on his neck. It was glowing, an Enchanted artifact of some sort that I presumed to work so as to amplify his voice.


    The crier spoke of policy and proclamations. It was a stark difference as compared to the criers in Avengard, who preferred to speak of specific, individual people, and their stories of the war. Rather than heroics, the crier there in Kreuzhain focused on the bigger picture.


    He spoke of the ports in far-off places and how much blackpowder and mortar they had imported, and how Kreuzhain was continuing its discussion of lowering the age wherein they would draft spearmen, smiths, and students of war. He went on about how the logistics for eastern offensives were straining the production needed from mining towns such as Oberwinter.


    It felt impersonal, but at the same time, it was the first time that I felt I well and truly understood the scale of the Seviskian invasion outside my family¡¯s own flight away from home.


    And then, suddenly, both my own struggles and that of the world seemed to collide.


    Avengard.


    ¡°¡­Further movements from Seviskian detachments have been tracked further and further to the west as well, far beyond the influence of Kreuzhain¡¯s own legions and ironworks. Notably, the Black Forest of Avengard, once purported to be a constricted area impassable to men and beast, has been declared as an active skirmish zone. The Seviskian Praetor, Soulbreaker, has taken his army and stationed them there as a camp, most likely a launching point for further offensives into Avengard.¡±


    Soulbreaker. Quixada had spoken of him. One of the Named Seviskian Praetors, loyal and bound to the Emir himself.


    Quixada¡¯s eyes widened, and he held his hand slowly to his mouth.


    I asked him, ¡°Does this change things for the pile of bones in the tin suit, then?¡±


    His eyes met mine, and I saw the same sadness that I harbored the day Isidora and I said goodbye to our mother. ¡°This pile of bones is a paladin-knight, lad, and you can address him as Ser.¡±

 [17] Justice Before Mercy

    Chapter Seventeen


    Justice Before Mercy


    The town crier struggled to stay on his feet amidst an uproar of wild declamations of defiance and disapproval from the crowd. The two dwarves from the Iron Watch held back their kin and taller erdvolkers alike as they protested against the news of a Seviskian praetor on Jattan soil, so far and so deep behind Kreuzhain¡¯s own lines.


    Faraway cities like Roses falling to Sevisk was one thing. Fleur d¡¯Lain could be under siege by dragons, for all they cared - that was all well and fine. But this news? This news told them that a Praetor had made his way all the way to the Black Forest. All the way to knock on the gates of Avengard¡¯s wall.


    This meant that a Seviskian elite had made a camp for his legion to the East. The Emirate of Sevisk stood to the West. Fleur d¡¯Lain was being torched to the North.


    Never in Kreuzhain¡¯s history had its walls been tested. As much pride and as much virtue as the Kreuzhainers had attributed to their walls, they had never had even a single arrow nor blade test the mettle of their walls. This was an arrogance that was now being tested by the idea that suddenly, without so much as a bell to warn the people, they had been surrounded.


    As the three of us stood back, Vaelora tugged on my shirtsleeve and said, ¡°Eyes up there. Are they watching us?¡±


    As the  crowd descended upon the poor littling, easily overcoming his two protectors, three men in worn leathers scanned the horizon with intent. Was the crowd¡¯s devolution into a small riot not of interest to them?


    ¡°We need to get moving,¡± Vaelora urged us again. ¡°Anywhere but here. I¡¯d rather Scipio here not welcome another cut to accompany that one, yes?¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s move somewhere the Houses wouldn¡¯t be able to follow us, then,¡± Quixada suggested calmly. Even as chaos began brewing around us and trouble lurked around every corner, he seemed to handle himself with as much cool and calm as he had the moment I caught him alone on that road to Kreuzhain. ¡°The Devil¡¯s Hill. That¡¯s where we can go.¡±


    ¡°Is it safe there?¡± Vaelora asked, clearly not assured by the place¡¯s namesake.


    ¡°No, but that¡¯s why it¡¯s safe for us,¡± Quixada said, and so we followed him.


    I had learned since then that The Devil¡¯s Hill is, by all accounts, the wretched underbelly of Kreuzhain that the Houses pretended to not care about. It was where one went to buy an exotic jewel, a man¡¯s death, or, with enough coin, a whispered word.


    And the latter is exactly what Quixada brought us there to find. With the elder paladin now with us on our quest to Avengard, he began to brew plans and schemes for how we would get there, how we could possibly make an impact in the world.


    ¡°Is this magick-wielder as powerful as you say? Enough to best a Praetor? To fell Soulbreaker?¡± Quixada asked us with steely resolve now firmly behind his voice. ¡°Many a conjurer has fallen to him, with their souls snatched and dessicated. To even attempt to rescue this sorceress is to interfere with House Stolz, and that could well easily be the death of us.¡±


    Vaelora answered sharply before I could. ¡°You said it yourself Ser Knight, did you not? That she is the Mistweaver, and that she is the Eclipsebinder. Rimbaud¡¯s seventh symphony.¡±


    ¡°That I did, lass, but those were just words, do you understand me?¡± The old man was visibly stressed as we walked through the streets of Kreuzhain, his hand smoothing out the curls of his thin wispy long beard as he spoke. ¡°Words that were repeated to me by drunken housemen and farmers who had never so much as seen the Laurelsroad. Those words are cheap.¡±


    ¡°Then perhaps you shouldn¡¯t have repeated them to us with such weight, Ser Knight?¡± Vaelora said. ¡°Words should be given more value than the breaths they were formed with.¡±


    To Quixada¡¯s credit, he quickly conceded the point, ¡°You¡¯re correct, lass. That¡¯s a fault of my own, but that still does not change the fact that we need some assurance that this wizardress is someone we can bank on. Because if she¡¯s not going to make a difference, then the door is still open for a quiet life elsewhere while this war goes on.¡±


    ¡°I told you I saw her,¡± I said sternly, taking Quixada back, as all three of us stopped walking. ¡°I told you that I watched as she felled a dragon with nothing but her staff and her word. If there¡¯s anything anywhere in the world that can make a difference - like you said - it¡¯s her. So what are you hesitating for? Is that you don¡¯t trust me, or is there something else?¡±


    Quixada and I shared a look. To the side on my periphery, I could see Vaelora watching over our shoulders, checking if the housemen had followed us.


    ¡°When you¡¯ve made it as long as I have, lad, you come to understand that life¡¯s nothing but a serious of big decisions. Everything in the middle¡¯s just¡­games and beer and going along with whatever life is throwing at you. But those big decisions, that¡¯s when all of a sudden, you¡¯re the one throwing the hit. You¡¯re the one coming out with your lance and the town square waiting on ¡®ye, looking to see what you¡¯ve got in store for them. And believe me, lad, you remember every single one of those big decisions.¡±


    ¡°What are you saying?¡± I asked.


    ¡°I¡¯m saying that this is one of them. This is the fork on the road, lad, and we¡¯re at the helm of the cart. And I¡¯m saying that on one side, you have a way out. The south is still quiet, and you make it there, build a farm or smithery or whatever it is your heart desires, and you ride it out to your elder years. Hells, I wind it down here on my own years as well.¡±


    ¡°This doesn¡¯t like what I¡¯ve heard of paladins and their chivalry, Ser Knight,¡± Vaelora interjected, concerned.


    ¡°Paladins are given divine power from their Oaths,¡± he explained. ¡°I¡¯ve accomplished mine. I met young Scipio here right before I did. I fulfilled my Oath when I buried the last of my men where they had asked to be buried, near Oberwinter.¡±


    ¡°Is that what you were doing on the King¡¯s Road?¡± I asked.


    Quixada continued, ¡°Without that direction, I am Oathless. And this path that you are leading me down now, towards this sorceress, towards bringing her to Soulbreaker, that is a wholly new Oath that would consume me. It would be greater than each and everyone of every other Oath I¡¯ve ever taken, combined.¡±The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Is this the other path, then?¡± I asked. ¡°The one on the fork, away from the life on the farm?¡±


    ¡°It is. And you need to understand the weight that this decision would put on my shoulders. To take on an Oath of Vengeance against Soulbreaker would be like choosing to kiss Death himself on the lips.¡±


    ¡°Is there no other way, Ser Knight? What if you continued on Oathless?¡± Vaelora asked.


    ¡°If I went on Oathless, then to bring me to free this magick-wielder would be as if you brought your great grandfather into a war. I¡¯d be nothing but an old man. And perhaps that¡¯s exactly what I should be. I¡¯ve served nine Oaths throughout my life. I am not certain if I need a tenth.¡±


    ¡°Quixada,¡± I began, ¡°That night before you fulfilled your last Oath, that night you met me on the King¡¯s Road and gave me your Blessing¡­you spoke of Soulbreaker. And you spoke of him with such vigor and energy that I would have thought that you already were on an Oath to best him.¡±


    ¡°I recall our conversation, lad,¡± Quixada said. ¡°Soulbreaker was not on my Oath, no, but he was the reason for it. He destroyed an entire rank of men in a single word. A single syllable. And I¡¯ve been burying men ever since.¡±


    ¡°You said you would ride to meet him,¡± I said, pointing a finger at Quixada now. ¡°You said that if I heard of him, I¡¯d find some way to pass word onto you, and you¡¯d ride to meet him. Well, I¡¯ve heard word of him. I¡¯ve heard word of the name, and I know where he is, and I¡¯m passing the word onto you. Will you ride to meet him?¡±


    I will never forget the look Quixada gave Vaelora and myself that day. His weathered, wrinkled face told a thousand stories, as if he were nothing but a library filled with ancient, leather-bound tomes. Stories of conflict, of relationships lost, and of Oaths from years past.


    ¡°¡­I will need to conduct a vigil,¡± Quixada said finally. ¡°I don¡¯t believe Hadrianus watches over one of His shrines here in Kreuzhain, but I believe I can make do if I could find a space quiet and private enough.¡±


    ¡°Hadrianus,¡± Vaelora echoed. ¡°The Unbroken Shield. The Lord of Honor.¡±


    ¡°Aye, lass. That he is,¡± Quixada said solemnly with a hand resting over his chest.


    We crossed the narrow, filthy stream of a river that bisected through the city, and afterwards, the climb up to the district of the Devil¡¯s Hill was much more strenuous than I had anticipated. Despite what its name had suggested, this area was more of a collection of different hills rather than just the one, and each downward descent was met again with another steep climb ahead of it. The walk was so taxing that it quickly became clear why the majority of Kreuzhainers - especially the dwarves - refused to even acknowledge the district¡¯s existence. The faces we met on the street were becoming younger on average with each new hill, and their ancestries more varied.


    After a fair amount of climbs, we found quarters in a respectable inn run by a middle-aged couple originally from the South. They greeted us with warm greetings and fairly priced ironhorn broth. The entire district, in general, seemed to be a similar story, and diametrically opposed to what we had seen in the rest of Kreuzhain. Here, in the poorest district of the city, the foreigners found their livings, and people could find some reason to smile and offer kindness without an expectation of reward.


    The room was simple in its furnishings, but behind its rusted iron-cast shutters was a clear view of the district. Where most of Kreuzhain¡¯s buildings were uniform in design and material, the structures on the Devil¡¯s Hill were varied and wildly different. Sandstone from the South, ceramic tiles from the West, and intricate carpentry from the East were put together in an amalgamation of the different cultures that found their foothold here.


    At night, Quixada simply placed his iron breastplate, gauntlets, and helmet on the windowsill, and knelt on one knee before his armour. He explained that without a shrine to Hadrianus, his armour was the next best artefact that he could use, and that Hadrianus was not one to turn down offerings made to Him.


    He stayed still, knelt on one crooked knee and eyes fixed on his own armour. He began when the sun set, murmuring a prayer in repetition, affirming his Oath of Vengeance. ¡°Justice before mercy, vengeance for the weak, and recourse for the fallen. Justice before mercy¡­¡±


    I do not know how many thousands of repetitions of his mantra Quixada had accomplished before the old man¡¯s bones began to falter, and sweat began to pool on the many wrinkles draped on his forehead and flanked across his gaunty, pointed nose. It must have been hours, with the moon now in full shine over the district of the Devil¡¯s Hill, when Quixada¡¯s murmurings turned into strained whispers, and his eyes struggled to maintain contact with his metals.


    ¡°Quixada? Are you well, Ser Knight?¡± Vaelora asked him in a low voice, concerned.


    He did not answer, and instead continued to struggle on with repeating his Oath. His face was strained and racked with emotion, and with the moonlight shining on him through the room¡¯s sole window, I saw him for who he truly was¡­an elder who¡¯s walked his roads and fought his battles. Was it truly right for us to ask for him to walk down another with us?


    ¡°Justice¡­before mercy,¡± Quixada continued, each syllable now a battle for him. He rested his hands over his left breast now, and it became clear that this was an internal battle for him, not a physical one. The type that took place in the soul rather than in the mind. ¡°Vengeance for the weak. Recourse¡­for the fallen.¡±


    ¡°Quixada, you need to tell us how to help,¡± I said. ¡°We can¡¯t help you if you don¡¯t tell us what to do. We haven¡¯t taken on any Oaths ourselves.¡±


    The smell of sulphur¡­


    ¡°There¡¯s¡­nothing you can do to help me, lad. This is a toil for me and me alone,¡± Quixada finally answered. ¡°Justice-¡±


    A sharp, violent breath racked Quixada, and he stumbled lower on his knee, his hands clutching at his chest. We stepped toward to help him, but he firmly waved us away, before regaining his composure and straightening his form. Tears formed now on his face. Under his breath, I heard Quixada whisper to himself, ¡°Brothers of the covenant, I will not fail. I will not fall.¡±


    The old man began his mantra once again, each syllable now punctuated with sweat and struggle.¡±Jus-tice¡­before mercy. Ven-,¡±


    ¡°Vengeance for the weak,¡± Vaelora continued for him, in a singsong voice and with low, bass chords plucked from her lyre. ¡°Bringing light to those cast off from the light of the sun.¡±


    ¡°Vaelora,¡± I started, ¡°Let the man conduct his vigil in-¡°


    ¡°Let her continue, lad,¡± Quixada interrupted me, waving Vaelora to continue on.


    She nodded, and sang, ¡°Bowed for the sword which does not bend. In homage to the shield which does not dent. A pilgrim and a knight for Hadrianus - the Lord of H¡¯nor, Prince of Justice above. For recourse for the fallen.¡±


    ¡°Recourse for the fallen,¡± followed Quixada.


    ¡°Seeking virtue in a tainted land. Creating fairness in an unfair place. A lance of light and firm hand of stone. Justice before mercy.¡±


    ¡°Justice before mercy.¡±


    Vaelora shifted the tune on her lyre smoothly, picking up the pace and putting a bit more power behind each chord. She smiled as she sang, sharing energy with Quixada, and simultaneously feeding off his own, like a wheel gaining speed rolling down an infinitely tall hill.


    ¡°The words on this night, they¡¯ll continue the fight. Continue the toil, and continue the path. You see, this isn¡¯t this man¡¯s first battle - and neither will it be his last! This pile of bones - this many-scarred knight. He has his eyes fixed on a prize. An eye for an eye, a life for a life of one who¡¯s taken so many. Soulbreaker.¡±


    ¡°Soulbreaker¡­¡±


    While Vaelora plucked on nothing but her lyre, the tunes of different instruments seemed to resonate around the room as well. The growing beat of a drum, the delicate tune of a clavichord¡­was this some sort of magicks of her own?


    ¡°Vengeance for the weak.¡±


    ¡°Vengance for the weak.¡±


    ¡°How many battles can one man command? How many blows can one man take? Better yet, answer me this - for what reason does one man live?¡± The sound of drumming rolled upwards, steadily growing in volume, and her lyre began to harmonize with the phantom clavichord, along with the accompanying high notes on a harp. ¡°He lives to build a bridge, you see - a bridge between the world as it is and as it can be! So show us - Ser Quixada - how to build that bridge and build that world. Light the way, and bring forth-¡°


    ¡°¡­Recourse for the fallen,¡± Quixada finished now, each syllable no longer a question mark, but a firm exclamation mark. His eyes were awash with a glowing light for a second, before fading as he stood with renewed vigor and - perhaps more importantly - reaffirmed purpose. ¡°My Oath is complete,¡± Quixada said, ¡°So let¡¯s get to work and save that Elf.¡±