Aleks Kotov
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Vol 7, Chapter 22
🕑 Added 2025-09-12 11:43:03 +0000 UTC
"When the shelling ended, they pulled me from the battlefield… but we lost most of our knights. So I would call that battle… at best, a draw," Erin finished her tale.
"You look good for someone with broken ribs."
"It's fine, I've already been to a healer. Only the arm… no luck. They never found it. Probably torn apart by the shells. I'll have to grow a new one, but… the healers have more important work right now. I can wait."
"Once, you would have preferred to get your arm back rather than save people," I remarked.
"Perhaps…" she replied melancholically, and fell silent.
For several minutes we walked without speaking. Only the squelch of the bloody mire and the cawing of crows broke the silence.
"What about the flamethrowers? How did they perform?" I asked.
"Honestly, I don't know. They stayed in the rear, and I had no time to watch. But I did see a couple of knights burning…"
"So, adding isolite powder to the fuel mix wasn't useless after all!" I exclaimed, but the girl sank back into her thoughts.
The blood beneath our feet grew thinner and thinner, soon replaced by cold earth. With piercing cries, flocks of crows rose into the overcast sky. More and more corpses appeared around us, along with those who worked on them.
The dirty work fell to the militia and camp servants. Under the watchful eyes of men-at-arms, they stripped armor, loaded bare bodies onto wagons, finished off the wounded…
I clicked my tongue and stopped by a bloodied corpse-cart. Every one of the dead had their throat slit.
"Are you cutting down everyone you find?" I asked a man-at-arms who was tallying the pikes stacked in bundles.
He turned slowly. Plate armor, a shield with a baronial crest on his back. Not a knight, not even a squire, but clearly not a nobody either, since he was entrusted with gathering spoils. A castle guard officer at the very least.
The soldier cast a skeptical eye over my attire, but when he saw the Countess, his face changed at once and he bowed quickly to her, then to me.
"No, my lord. Only those gravely wounded… or unable to walk," he said obsequiously.
"Those who can walk usually don't lie on the battlefield," I noted.
"Indeed, my lord. In an hour we found only three."
"And how many wounded were there?"
The question baffled him.
"Uh… I cannot say, your grace…" he mumbled guiltily, then turned to the servants. His tone shifted instantly from servile to harsh. "Hey, rabble, report! How many did you slit?!"
The nearest militiaman, whose belt-knife was caked in blood, flinched.
"Twelve, Captain!"
Others reported after him. This group alone had finished off more than a hundred. Unacceptable.
"I've heard enough. Now listen to me. I'll pay for every wounded man delivered to the Condor camp. Half a silver coin to you, and the same to the servants who bring him."
Greed lit up in the captain's eyes.
"Ha. That whim I can grant, my lord. You all heard? You two, take a cart and find someone still breathing. The rest, move it! Spoils quota stands the same!"
"Why are you doing this?" Erin asked quietly.
"Do I need a reason to save lives?"
She shook her head.
"This will only bring more suffering. These men, for coin, will drag even the mortally wounded, instead of ending their pain."
"And did they ask for their pain to be ended?"
"…What?"
"If they want death so much, why haven't they killed themselves?"
"But… maybe they can't," she shrugged with her good shoulder, wincing.
"Or maybe they want to live. Yes, few will survive once brought to camp, true—the healers will focus on my people first... But at least they'll have a chance. Out here, they're guaranteed to die."
The girl ran her only hand over her face and whistled sharply for the chimera. Servants scattered as the giant beast padded past.
"Can you climb on?" she asked.
"Of course. What about you?"
In answer, she vaulted onto its back.
"With one arm it'll be hard to haul you into the saddle, but I could mount even without arms. So… need help?"
Clinging to the beast's fur, I managed with effort to scramble onto its back.
"So why the sudden change of transport?" I asked.
"Because otherwise we won't make it in time. If you're set on saving lives, better save the useful ones at least."
I opened my mouth to ask a question, but the beast bounded forward, forcing me to clutch her back just to stay seated.
"W-where are we going?!" I finally managed to ask, nearly biting my tongue from the jolting. Abyss, riding a horse was far more comfortable!
"Count Bicon intends to execute the bolt-throwermen. To operate a bolt-thrower effectively, the shooter must be at least a Lesser Adept. But every Adept is more valuable as a knight; if he has the strength to wind a spring with magic, he has the strength to bear armor. As a result, only inexperienced squires or landless knights become bolt-throwermen: men stripped of holdings and rank for misconduct, or simply too poor to maintain them. Captured enemy soldiers will be branded and sent to labor, but these… they are a problem. They lack knightly status, yet they're far more dangerous than common soldiers. So they are simply executed," the girl explained.
The absence of her arm didn't hinder her in the least from controlling the chimera.
Within minutes, we reached the aristocrats' camp.
A line of prisoners bound by rope. A block. A knight with a greatsword stood as executioner. Judging by the blood, this wasn't the first group.
Count Bicon, turning a helmet in his hands, watched as the first prisoner was forced to kneel.
"Count," I greeted him curtly, sliding down from the chimera.
"Without doubt, I am a Count. But who are you? Forgive me, no scales, no claws, just a cloak over bare flesh. Hard to know who I am dealing with. Perhaps some madman, freshly bathed in blood?"
"If you don't show proper respect, Count, I'll bathe in your blood next," I snarled.
It was obvious he had no intention of a constructive dialogue. A poor outlook: I had no weapon, my strength was drained, and relying on a sated demon would be sheer folly. Yet showing weakness would be even more foolish.
Bicon was already growing insolent, reasonably assuming he could afford it while I was weakened.
"Yes, I certainly do not know you. Count Condor never insisted on formalities," he said.
"Only toward friends. You still have a chance to show you are one… Hand over the prisoners."
"These are our prisoners, Count Condor, and I alone decide their fate."
"No longer."
Silence fell. Even the crows quieted.
The knight who had raised his blade over the block held it suspended, waiting for orders. For several minutes, the Count weighed his options, his eyes flicking again and again to Erin, who stood by without intervening. Finally, he chose.
"Very well, I can let you have them… in parts. Sir Gregor, why did you stop? Continue the executions!"
The sword came down on the block, a head rolled across the ground… and the Count's helmet, fell from his hands.
A moment later he fell too, struck by an uppercut. The blow disoriented him, but nothing more. The fight must go on, now on the ground.
I smashed my knuckles against his face, not giving him a single second to recover. A tremor passed through his body; he was reaching for his Source.
The helmet lying nearby shuddered, but instead of hurtling at me like a cannonball, it stayed pinned down by another force. Erin still acted as though it was none of her concern, but she had made her move.
Spitting out curses, the Count reached for the dagger at his belt.
Because of the countless blows, he could no longer control his muscles... but he didn't need to.
Obeying his will, the armor itself moved to the right place, dragging along the flesh hidden beneath the steel.
I caught his hand, but stopping it was no easier than halting an excavator's arm. I shoved aside the temptation to call Astarot's aid and smashed my forehead into his face. His nose crunched; bells rang in my ears.
I struck again. And again. At last, the Count went limp.
Staggering, I rose from his body. Blood from a split brow filled my eye, but no less blood smeared my face from his.
"I told you I'd wash in it," I spat red saliva, and only then noticed the knights around us, frozen mid-motion as if caught between breaths.
Erin lowered her hand, and they could move again.
Well, it seemed I owed her thanks for ensuring no one interfered.
I stooped to pick up the Count's helmet and tossed it into the basket of severed heads. A pity it was only the helmet.
"Untie the men and release them. Now."
"I am not your vassal and don't take orders from you," the executioner replied.
I stepped toward him.
"Then why did you lower your sword?"
Another step.
"Why are you not continuing their executions as if nothing happened?"
And another.
"Your lord gave you the order; why do you not carry it out?" I asked, standing face-to-face.
The executioner averted his gaze.
"So be it. Guarding prisoners from theft wasn't among my orders. Servants! Haul this lot to the Condor camp!"
"A wise choice," I said, clapping his pauldron and leaving bloody handprints on the steel.
A sharp whistle of air made me turn.
My hand caught the flying sword by instinct. A hand covered in scales, clawed fingers. The strange sense of duality confused my mind; I couldn't even tell if I was the one controlling it or not.
Still, our intentions were one.
The palm clenched around the blade. Metal cracked and warped under my grip, enchantments draining rapidly from it. A second later the steel shattered with a ringing snap.
"So you weren't asleep?" I asked the demon silently.
"I wanted to see how you'd act, left completely drained," came the lazy growl, echoing through my head.
"And? Are you satisfied?"
"Satiatus. Shall we devour him?"
Not a chance. With effort, I reclaimed my human hand. Heavy effort. The demon, sated and swollen, felt far too comfortable inside me.
Shaking the shards of steel from my once-more human hand, I turned back to Bicon.
He stumbled backward.
"Countess, restrain your… or I… I'll complain to the Marquise!"
"Get lost," we answered almost in unison.
He scrambled to his feet and hobbled away. Passing his knights, he turned to shout:
"I won't let this stand!"
Of course, he couldn't just leave without a last word…
***
A column of several dozen prisoners trudged behind us toward the field camp. It wasn't far — only a few hundred meters of empty ground separated the two camps. Outwardly, though, they were very different. Instead of large, colorful pavilions embroidered with crests and banners, there were low, squat tents of rubberized cloth. A handful of wagon kitchens with smoke rising from them. Sparse campfires, mostly beside the larger hospital tents.
"Randal…"
"What?" I tore my gaze from the camp.
But the girl kept silent. I raised a brow.
"…No, nothing. Look — I think your commander is wounded." Erin finished too quickly, waving toward Til as he approached, his head swathed in bandages.
I shot her a suspicious glance but stepped aside to speak with the general. Not only did the freed prisoners need to be housed, but wounded soldiers of the Second Duke would soon be arriving as well.
"More wounded… We'll have to think where to put them," he sighed.
"Do we really have… heavy losses?" I asked, surprised. Judging by Erin's words, things should have gone well. I had stopped the chimera, the cavalry that could have broken our lines had been halted.
"Fairly heavy, about two thousand. Mostly not ours, though… When the Duke's troops began retreating, the ambush regiment tried to block their way. They didn't have many muskets, aside from a single company the rest were peasants. The regiment was wiped out completely. We tried to help, but the Duke sent his cavalry to cover the retreat. We fought them off, but not without losses. And by the time we did… it was too late."
I grimaced. My decision to leave the troops without command while I went to face the chimera had its cost. Foolish to try to encircle a retreating army with such meager forces; we'd lost an entire regiment for nothing.
"Understood. When the wounded arrive, find tents and painkillers for them. Let the healers tend to them… but only after finishing with our men."
"Yes, sir. And… hm. Please knock some sense into our little pest. We need the stone piles heated for the tents, but when I asked her, she told me to get lost." Til nodded toward the fire, where a small red figure could be seen.
"All right, I'll handle it." Clapping his shoulder, I headed for the fire.
No tents stood near it, as if they'd fled in fear… Or perhaps simply hadn't been pitched so as not to irritate the mage.
Asha rose when she saw me, then sat again, turning away. I sat down at her right and gestured for Erin to do the same. She hesitated, then did... but deliberately circled around, pointedly avoiding sitting beside the mage.
Behind us, the great cat dropped heavily to the ground, licking its wounds and squinting at the flames. Twigs crackled. Sparks rose. Even the earth seemed warm.
I noticed Asha had already edged away half an arm's length, though I had sat down close. That wouldn't do. I reached to pull her closer, touched her… and froze.
Her robe was soaked.
Thoughts raced. She hadn't dried it. Had she lost her magic? Should I mention it, or pretend not to notice, knowing how sensitive she was about weakness? Wait — the cause? We had already parted on a sour note… Could it be she had poured too much of her mana into that whirlwind to seize it, and I had drained it from her? Should I…
Ah, to hell with it. Asha wasn't one for guessing games.
I pulled her to me, and she didn't even snort. I tried to turn her face toward me, but she looked away, guilty.
"Tell me what happened."
************************************************************
◆ Battlefield, Day, Asha POV ◆
The girl wiped a trickle of blood from her mouth with her sleeve. Red on red, hardly noticeable.
The whirlwind in the distance subsided, collapsing into itself, taking with it all the energy she hadn't managed to reclaim. Her chest ached at the loss; it would take days to restore her strength. But that didn't matter, for the circle would suffer a far greater backlash. The wooden fishing barge where the mages had set up their circle even stopped glowing for a time.
Clever: instead of a full ritual circle, the Second Duke had prepared a smaller, portable one. Protected by the river, they had nothing to fear from enemy troops. To reach the barge, one would need boats or…
"My lady, your orders?"
"We ride to the river, board them by force!"
The girl vaulted onto her horse and spurred it on. Already, pike squares bristled on the riverbank around the barge, but why charge them? It was enough to reach the water and continue forward upon it. She had failed with the whirlwind, but here she would not lose.
Hooves flung sand into the air. It was time.
Snatching a thermite cylinder from her belt, she hurled it skyward. Flash! The metals sparked, heating to insane temperatures.
The anchor was ready.
She was no water mage and could not simply freeze a river, yet she could draw out its heat. And if the result was still ice, what difference did it make?
A single summoned spark swelled into a fireball, its crimson glow lighting everything around. The blazing projectile hurtled toward the barge's prow, and beneath it spread a wave of cold, freezing the river in an instant.
"Forward! Forward!" she cried, urging her horse onto the new ice.
Iron shoes shattered ice chips, cracks webbing out beneath them… but the ice was thick enough to bear riders.
Crack! The barge shuddered to a halt, frozen fast. Wood groaned; flames roared, wrapping around the magical shield and licking the ship's prow. Timber blackened, fire spread; that would distract them.
But the blaze grew too fast, as if someone was feeding it…
The riders were halfway across the ice when the flames surged with renewed force and vanished.
The chill air turned sweltering. The ice beneath them warmed and melted with frightening speed. She tried to wrest back control, but failed. The fire no longer obeyed her. It was held not merely by an archmage of fire, not just by someone stronger in raw power, but by one with the same affinity.
An Ashirian.
A member of the Council.
Father?
She reached for another cylinder, but her horse's hooves broke through the thinning ice. A moment of weightlessness, then icy water. Currents dragged her from the saddle, spinning her, disorienting her. She couldn't tell up from down.
The river carried her, water flooding her throat. A jagged ice floe struck her head. For endless minutes she fought to surface, to breathe, but her hands met only ice. Her spark guttered out too fast to stoke it again. Truly, no mage was more helpless than a fire mage drowning…
Struggling against the current with the last of her strength, she found a gap between the chunks of ice. Air! Spitting out water, she took a short breath and tried to look around. The current had carried her hundreds of meters away. Behind her, horses and riders were trying to make it out. Some were swimming for the shore with the last of their strength, others clung to the ice floes. The entire frozen bridge had been destroyed. An unknown mage had deftly countered the attack — the same fire that had created the ice melted it away.
The ice floe ahead of her suddenly stopped, knocking the breath out of her. Abyss, what the hell? The girl had no time to find out — she plunged into the icy water before the floe behind could pin her… or even crush her between the ice!
Her leg cramped, threatening to drag her under. She struggled upward despite knowing ice lay above. Then her body slammed into something solid. The current dragged her along its side. Her nails snapped as she scraped for purchase against a surface too smooth, too even to be stone. The current shifted, pulling her legs under the "rock," leaving her no chance to grasp what was happening… or why the rock was floating.
A blast thundered. The "rock" shuddered, battering her body. Ice cracked, and… fire! She felt fire above.
Asha seized a fragment of it. Heat coursed through her arms, water boiling away, hurling shards of ice. Her hand broke the surface in a spray of steam and spray. Fingers clamped onto the "cliff." Steel reddened and softened under her burning grip, letting her cling against the current. Her other hand melted the steel hull, sinking into the softened metal. With the last of her strength, she hauled herself up.
Another blast!
The hull shook, almost throwing her under the ship's keel. But the new blast gave her fresh strength. Her fingers melted through the metal, gripping the ship firmly. Catching her breath for a moment, she tried to climb the sheer wall… but a massive hand grabbed her by the hood and lifted her into the air.
Impact. Steel deck. Water streamed off her, steam rising from her soaked clothes.
"Damn, she's scorching hot. Like pulling a carrot straight from boiling broth!" Dorvan yelped, shaking his hand and blowing on it.
"You alright?" Dolan asked, glancing at the girl. She only shook her head, coughing up water.
"Master Pit, people are still thrashing in the river! We need to haul them out!" Dorvan called, realizing the carrot wasn't the only one.
"No problem, give me ten minutes! I'll weave a giant strainer and then—"
"They're already here!"
"Abyss! Fine! Where are the chains? Bring me chains!"
Another thunderous salvo shook the deck beneath their feet. Asha slowly pulled herself upright, clutching Dorvan's leg. He bent down, hauling her up. Normally she loathed being around big men (they made her feel even smaller), but this time she didn't even bare her teeth at his hand.
"Th-thank you," she whispered hoarsely.
Loaders dragged up fresh shells from the magazine. Breeches slammed shut. A lever clanged. Fire!
Blossoms of flame ripped through the enemy cavalry.
"No! Aim for the barge! The mages are on the barge!" she shouted.
Dolan lifted his spyglass, squinting.
"Two o'clock. Range… seventeen hundred… seven hundred twenty meters. Six degrees. Target!"
Gunners scrambled, wheels and screws groaning as they swung the barrels into position.
"Gun One ready!"
...
"Gun Three ready!"
...
"…Gun Eight ready!"
"Fire!"
The deck lurched violently, nearly knocking her down.
The first projectile splashed into the water, throwing up a fountain. Waves rocked the barge. Five more projectiles splashed down nearby, hurling tons of water into the air. One even struck the shore, scattering pikemen like rag dolls.
Dolan carefully examined the impacts through his spyglass, assessing the ellipse of dispersion."
And where the hell is shell eight?" he barked.
"Misfire, sir! I'll reset—"
A deafening roar cut him off. The cannon bucked, spitting its payload. A moment later the barge's prow vanished in a blinding flash, splinters raining into the river.
Asha narrowed her eyes, straining to see whether the magical shield had cracked, but she didn't dare ask Dolan for his glass.
"Good. Direct hit," he said flatly. "Keep firing."
Another volley. Two shells tore clean through the hull, wood bursting apart—but neither exploded.
"Did you idiots forget to screw the fuses in?" Dolan roared.
"No, sir, all set properly, I swear!"
He strode toward the loaders, but their cries dragged his eyes back to the glass.
A towering wave crashed down over the barge. In a blink, the water froze solid. A wall of ice.
"Ha. An ice shield. Pathetic. We smashed through ice thicker than this just to get here. Report status!"
"Gun One ready!"
For a heartbeat the barge was visible, grounded as the river drained back. Then fog boiled up, thick and heavy, smothering it from sight. Only the jagged crown of the ice wall rose above.
"That won't save them," Dolan muttered, though his voice held the first edge of doubt. He slashed his hand down.
Eight more shells screamed through the mist. Explosions tore away part of the wall, shattered fog into tatters—but within seconds the haze rolled back in, denser than before.
Just long enough for Dolan to glimpse the barge lying broken, sinking beneath. Then it was gone. He swept the battlefield with the glass. The Duke's forces were buckling everywhere—the center folding, the left flank clawing at its encirclement, the right drowned in yellow gas, abandoned.
"Fine. Redirect fire onto the left flank infantry! Don't let them reform! Coordinates..."
*******************************************
"Keep going," I urged the girl, lost in thought.
She huffed, eyes sliding away.
"Nothing else to say. We charged the barge, they melted our ice, we all plunged in. Freezing water. Cramps. Even without armor many drowned… You were right. I… I shouldn't have wasted my strength on the whirlwind. I was too weak to—"
I flicked her nose.
"Don't sulk. Failures happen."
But Erin's voice cut coldly into my back.
"It wasn't failure. It was inevitability. A gulf in strength. We lost the bulk of our knights, and of those left—nearly half are Bicon's men."
"How many did the enemy lose?"
"What?"
"They retreated. Their losses can't have been small."
"I suppose… quite a few, but—"
"And they lost mages too, didn't they?"
"Some managed to escape, I think," Asha interjected softly.
So, what's this stream of gloom pouring into both my ears at once?
"It doesn't matter. At this point they can't do anything. We can shatter any ritual circle they will set up with artillery. So stop saying we failed. We didn't. It wasn't perfect, but we did achieve something. You, Erin, traded quite well…"
"Traded?" Erin snapped. "We lost men trained for decades. Estates can be handed down easily, and finding people with the Gift isn't impossible. But rebuilding combat strength, forging trained warriors again… That's a failure."
"Then it's time to shift to other weapons. Ones that don't require decades of training," I cut her off.
"Ha." She gave a bitter laugh. "Weapons… What weapon can defeat someone who sees the future?"
"Self-guided ones?" I suggested. She fell into thought, giving me a chance to hearten Asha.
"You held the whirlwind back. You kept it from tearing through our people. Thousands would have burned if not for you. And you drew their mages' focus. The failure with the ice… that's normal. Life rarely goes the way you want. It wasn't your fault."
She shook her head. "No, you don't understand. The enemy mage was stronger. I couldn't stop him… it is my fault."
"If you keep to whine, you'll get no wine."**
"That's a stupid pun…"
"No stupider than this whole talk of fault. So? What about wine?"
"You're really not angry?"
"I don't get angry over failure. Especially when someone tried their hardest."
"Then fetch a barrel," she brightened instantly. "Oh... and promise me you'll help me grow stronger!"
"How?"
"I don't know, but you've already helped me once. Help me again! I have to surpass him. That…"
"I'll pass. I don't like drinking parties," Erin cut in.
"Nobody invited you," Asha snorted.
"It's not your place to decide who invites me to what."
"It is. Besides, you already refused—what nonsense. Go sharpen your sword alone or whatever you nobles do."
"What a primitive notion of aristocratic duties," Erin's voice dropped into a threat.
"Oh right, and also flogging your servants with whips and throwing grand balls." Asha ticked the points off on her fingers.
"I don't flog my servants with whips."
"Then what do you flog them with?"
The question froze the countess.
"For a second I thought you capable of thought and reflection… but now I see your head's filled with wind instead of brains."
"I prefer to think it's fire. By the way, what does 'reflection' mean?"
"Enough." I pulled both girls into an embrace to break up their quarrel, but it didn't help.
"Reflection? That's something you don't know how to do!"
"But I know how to directly ask for what I want."
"Any fool can do that!"
"Really? Then just say you want to drink too."
"What? I don't want to. Why would you think that?"
"Then why refuse if no one offered? Unless you wanted them to offer?!"
I stared at the triumphant Asha. At times, she was surprisingly perceptive.
"No. You misunderstand. I can't… drink with just anyone. Unlike rootless mercenaries!"
"You can't even drink? How boring your life must be." Asha sighed.
I had to admit, it sounded suspicious to me too.
"Hm. Asha's right. There's nothing wrong with drinking. What's the point of a title if you can't drink with whomever you want?"
"I'm not in the mood," Erin muttered, lips pressed tight.
Without coordinating, Asha and I pressed her from both sides.
"That's because you don't drink! Of course you're not in the mood!"
"Don't take it so seriously. Just have one with us."
"Only a good binge can lift the mood. With a little continuation."
"We'll just gather as friends and celebrate the victory. Or are you saying nobody will celebrate at all?"
"…Fine, damn it! Where's this party?" she gave in.
"We'll kick the aristocracy off the ship. The battle's over, no more reason for them to stay there," I suggested.
"Alright, I'll come after sunset. But I have matters first. As do you, Randal."
"Mmm?"
"I didn't mention something. The Second Duke has agreed to negotiations."
"What negotiations?"
"The ones you offered before the battle."
"Oh, so now he agrees…"
Erin's lips curled in the faintest smile.
"They'll take place in four days, on neutral ground."
"Fine, done. Is the Marquise informed?"
"No."
"No?"
"The Second Duke invites you, not my mother..."
Comments
Johan Timmers
Tftc
HF3d3d HF3d3dHF3d3d
**In Russian, vina (fault) and vina (wine) are practically homonyms. So in the original it sounded something like, “If you keep blaming yourself, you won’t get any wine.” In the translation, alas, I had to shift the meaning a bit for the sake of the pun.
