Aleks Kotov
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Vol 7, Chapter 9
🕑 Added 2025-09-04 08:47:36 +0000 UTC◆ Poisoned Battlefield, General Til's POV. ◆
The green wall closed behind him.
Maybe it was the thick rubber of the suit, maybe it was the slime... but moving was difficult, as though he were wading through water.
Til swung his hand, and a chunk of greenish slime clung to his rubber glove. Quite a material piece of crap. He shook it off with disgust and carefully scanned the green haze before him. Oddly enough, his gesture hadn't thinned it out in the slightest.
To make sure, he waved his arms again and again, scooping up blobs of slime, but the green haze instantly restored itself.
"Magic," he concluded profoundly, taking another step forward.
The slime wrapped around him from all sides in a cold embrace, but it couldn't find a single gap in the suit. With a sickening squelch, the breathing valve gurgled, releasing spent air. The slime that clung to it splattered away, unable to penetrate inside. Looked like everything was working.
He turned and stepped back.
Slippery. The withered grass was thickly covered in slime and seemed to rot on its own... A real icy slide.
Nearly slipping, he crossed the barrier under Stern's swearing and raised a thumb up.
"All clear!"
Through the mask, his voice came out as incoherent mumbling, but the lord nodded.
"Alright, you can go. Don't rush, but don't dawdle either; the tanks will last for a couple of hours at most."
Nodding, Til went back into the fog. Two volunteers followed him, dressed in identical suits with heavy tanks strapped to their backs and revolvers at their belts. Correction: one of the soldiers was clutching his in his hand, as if he couldn't admire it enough from the outside.
"Holster it. Nothing dangerous is going to meet us here," Til grumbled angrily, and the soldier obeyed.
The other one had problems too. The slime around his "snout" splattered far too violently, showing that he was gasping for air, struggling to breathe.
Til stepped over to him and smacked him on the helmet, nearly knocking him down.
"Calm down and breathe slower! Or you'll run out of air!"
Order restored, they could move forward.
Keeping their knees slightly bent to avoid falling, they crept through the trenches. This stretch was the hardest: the green muck had flooded the fortifications. The thick layer of slime smoothed over every uneven spot, making it impossible to tell where the ground ended and the trenches began. And visibility was useless besides...
Til tried wiping the lenses. Futile. The slime immediately clung to them again, blocking out everything ahead. They had to move almost by touch, vision barely piercing farther than arm's length.
Carefully choosing every step, they made their way forward.
They? Til looked back. His comrades were neither visible nor audible. And yet, moments ago, they had been shoulder to shoulder! Damn fog.
"Abyss. We should've tied ourselves together with rope..." He wanted to spit, but caught himself in time; nothing good would come of that.
All he could do was keep moving, guided by the searchlights behind. At least they couldn't get lost.
Navigating the trenches from memory, he went farther. The worst part was the barbed wire, so thickly caked in green slime it resembled a noble's garden hedge. Amusing, but dangerous. The thick rubber suit was hard to pierce, true, but hard didn't mean impossible.
Beyond this it should get easier. The fortifications ended, opening onto a field riddled with shell craters and strewn with corpses. It lacked man-height trenches, but after months of fighting it was anything but flat.
And that's where he slipped up.
His foot sank into a pit, splashing green muck upward. Balance gone. The heavy tank dragged him sideways. Nothing to grab hold of: slime-covered ground was as slick as ice.
Til fell, barely managing to thrust his hand forward.
Before the mask's lenses... spearpoint, with a gob of green slime clinging to the tip. A few more centimeters and...
A wave of cold rippled down his spine.
Til carefully backed away on all fours.
"Alright, I won't be telling anyone about this," he whispered, catching his breath.
Then he picked the spear up off the ground. Green jelly trailed from the shaft, bones visible inside.
"You won't be telling anyone either, buddy. Deal?" he said to the fallen warrior, shaking the remains off the weapon.
The shaft slipped in his hands, but it was better than nothing. Now he could probe the ground before stepping. Really, he should've thought of this earlier... But who could've guessed this was a real swamp of slime?
As long as it wasn't quicksand...
Heartened, he pressed on.
It grew colder. The lenses fogged, worsening visibility. Til tried wiping them from the inside, to no avail.
"Great, one more nuisance…"
Cold. Slime. Something stirred at the edge of his consciousness, something from old tales of monsters and heroes…
The air grew colder, the lenses fogged, worsening his sight further. Til tried wiping them from the inside; no luck.
"Great, one more nuisance…"
Cold. Slime. Something stirred at the edge of his consciousness, something from old tales of monsters and heroes…
Abyss, this stuff is just like the muck left after killing ghosts! The strange behavior, the cold... Hah! Exactly! Which means their weakness should be the same..."
He looked around. The searchlights had shrunk considerably, meaning most of the field was behind him already. Another hundred or two paces, and the enemy camp would begin. Foolish to turn back now. No—he'd kill the mages first, then share the discovery...
The terrain began to slope upward. True, the hill where the Duke's army had entrenched itself was rather low and gentle compared to theirs… but it was still a climb, and a very slippery one at that, coated with slime. Til had to drive his spear deep into the ground, pull himself up, repeat again, all while trying not to slide back down.
It didn't work. Once again finding himself at the foot of the hill, Til spent several minutes searching for another weapon. With a bullet-dented sword in hand, the job went much faster. He scrambled up the obstacle without much effort and finally reached the camp. The fog here was a bit thinner—he could make out shapes a few steps away. Only there was nothing worth seeing.
Piles of slime, piles of bones that crunched underfoot.
And not only human bones—the slimy heaps revealed horses and even chimeras had been caught in the onslaught. Good news for them: once the enemy lost most of their heavy cavalry, there would be no more threat to infantry battalions on open ground.
Til brushed slime off his holster and drew his revolver. With spear in one hand and revolver in the other, he prowled through the camp. The mages had to be here somewhere. But where?
Dozens of minutes searching yielded nothing. Only corpses, corpses, and more corpses. Til even checked the trebuchet positions, but in vain.
The air in his tank wasn't infinite, and he still needed enough to get back.
Til sat on a knight's armor oozing green sludge and thought.
Where would he hide, if he were a mage?
Hm. First of all, if he were a mage, he'd probably be taming dragons. But say, out of sheer stupidity, he'd signed up to tame this revolting green slime instead…
The bombardment had been sudden and not very accurate. If they'd been near the trebuchets, the shells would have killed them. They couldn't have been too close, either, or the fog would have consumed them before they contained it. Where could they hide from artillery without being too exposed?
His gaze settled on the trenches. He didn't want to go down there, but he would have to. That was the one place he hadn't checked yet.
Squelch!
The slime in the trench reached his chest. Fortunately, the Duke's peasants had clearly cut corners, digging far shallower trenches than Condor soldiers.
Wading through it was grueling. However much he wanted to conserve air, he had to breathe more and more often. The trench twisted until it ended at something wooden. A door!
Slowed by slime, he kicked it open, and a stream of green sludge rushed inside, nearly carrying him with it. The dugout was empty: just a handful of bones and thick, green fog filling the space. The door hadn't saved those who sheltered within.
But surely this wasn't the only dugout…
At the third door, luck smiled on him. The mask muffled the words, but there were definitely voices behind it.
Til pressed his ear to the door.
"…wait till morning!" someone screamed in hysterics.
"We don't have enough air. Let's be civilized and vote on who we sacrifice. That way, the rest of us can survive," came another voice, calm and reasonable.
"It's your fault we're trapped here!"
"Perhaps. But I'm the only air mage here. Without me, you'll suffocate. So vote on which of you we'll sacrifice…"
"I still say we should try breaking out now! Why are you so sure our shields can't hold back the liquid phase? If we combine our efforts…" a third voice joined.
"You're suggesting that only because you know you'll likely be the one sacrificed. Don't resist," added a new voice. Female.
Four of them.
Til grimaced, set aside his spear, and cocked the hammers of his revolvers. Damn mages. Like spiders in a jar, bickering over which one to devour.
He no longer doubted that if left alone, they'd kill each other anyway.
But he didn't have the time to wait.
He kicked the door!
To his surprise, it didn't budge. Abyss, of course—they had reinforced it with magic.
"Did you hear that?" came a worried voice inside.
Oh yes, now you'll hear plenty.
His gloved fingers squeezed the triggers.
Two bullets punched through the wooden planks and the magic shield behind them, letting the green fog seep inside. Til kicked again, and this time the door burst open. Right before him stood a mage, who'd come closer to check the noise. His shoulder bled from the bullet, but that hardly mattered. The green fog proved deadlier than the shot. His face turned green, becoming transparent, devoured before Til's eyes by slime. His legs thinned, bathed in the torrent of muck. He staggered, and instead of a face, a skull stared back.
Til shoved him aside and shot the nearest mage. Not to kill, but to spare them agony. The other two managed to shield themselves from the mist, but a wave of slime poured in, instantly flooding the bunker with predictable results. Resistance was pointless. When your body falls apart into pieces, an enemy soldier with revolvers is the least of your worries.
But one of them still held on. Around his body shimmered a bubble, keeping out the mist. Even the slime slid around his legs, diverted by the invisible barrier... but it was faltering, only delaying the inevitable. The slime pressed harder and harder, crushing the shields. Terror filled the mage's eyes.
Well then, why prolong the torment, even if he was a mage?
Another shot to the head ended it.
And that was it?
Til uneasily slid the revolvers back into their holsters. The mages burbled disgustingly as they turned into jelly with bones, making him twitch his shoulders nervously. He had almost forgotten that what surrounded him wasn't spoiled aspic, but deadly muck… Still, killing the mages had felt far too easy. Not very heroic either, to be honest.
Disappointed, the general climbed out of the trench and brushed the lethal slime off himself.
Yeah, when he told this story to children someday, he would definitely embellish it. Hm. Say, a fireball he narrowly dodged, and a couple of slime-phantoms would make it sound much more heroic, yes!
A gunshot snapped him out of his musings. Somewhere ahead?
Til whipped out a revolver and fired into the air as a signal. Ten seconds later another shot answered. Right ahead!
Grabbing his spear, he headed toward his comrade. The camp fell behind. Losing balance, he slid down the slope. Silence. Hm, the signal should have come from around here.
He fired into the air again.
Silence in reply.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the fog, covered head to toe in greenish slime. Til barely stopped himself from pulling the trigger at the last second.
"Commander, praise the One, you're alive!" the figure mumbled, arms spread wide with joy.
"Where's the other?"
"I… I don't know. I thought he was with you, sir."
"Abyss."
Well, at least one soldier had made it, even reaching the camp… though apparently unable to climb the hill. Abyss, and the lord hadn't even wanted to let him go! What would these fools have done without him? He should've gone alone…
Patting the soldier's shoulder: "Alright. It's fine. The mages are dead. We're heading back."
"Praise… Praise the One. I… I'm running out of air. It's getting… hard to breathe."
"Id-iot, I told you not to panic. Move. Fast," Til growled furiously, grabbing the soldier by the hand and dragging him along.
The floodlights marked the path, like dozens of tiny suns.
The way back seemed easier. Seemed.
Twisted remains of armor underfoot, shards of weapons. The battlefield was full of sharp debris and nasty pits. His tank surely was nearly empty by now, the weight on his back suspiciously light. But he couldn't rush. Til carefully picked his way, probing with his spear.
Until it struck something gray and resilient.
Til let go of the soldier's hand and bent over the strange object. A chill gnawed at his heart. A sweep of his hand cleared slime away; his glove touched a metal tank.
"Abyss!"
Til tried to roll the body over, but it flopped like a wineskin, shifting shape. Behind the lenses floated a skull, the tank was empty. No telling exactly what had happened, and no time to find out. One thing was clear: only two of them were left.
"Let's keep moving," he said to the soldier. But the man sat on the ground.
"I can't… my legs feel like lead."
"Abyss take you, goblin's whelp! Get up, that's an order!" Til cursed.
The comrade's mask still hissed, releasing air, but he was already on the verge of passing out.
Til's own tank was suspiciously light, and the more effort he spent, the more oxygen he needed. Would it last? Didn't matter.
Without hesitation, he hefted the body, slung it over his shoulder, and dragged it along.
"Hold on to me… Abyss, next time I'm definitely going alone."
At least the fortifications were close now.
His ears roared, his own footsteps drowned out. Only breath and the squelch of slime. He had to keep moving. The soldier's weight shifted, forcing him to drop his spear to hold him steady.
Barbed wire fell behind them.
A step. Another step. A fall.
He plunged forward. At the last instant Til shoved the soldier aside so he wouldn't tumble into the trench with him, but the slime closed around Til himself.
It covered his mask, swallowed him whole. For a moment the hissing stopped. The surrounding slime and the tank vied for dominance, whether the air pressure would drive it out or the muck would seep in.
A second passed, ending with a weak but triumphant hiss.
"So I can walk underwater in this suit too?" a foolish thought struck him as he struggled, until he finally found a firing platform and pulled himself out of the trench.
For several seconds he just lay there, catching his breath and regaining strength. How could he have forgotten there was a trench here? Damn fog, where you couldn't see a thing...
Recalling the map, he seized the soldier and dragged him along. Only a couple hundred meters remained, no more.
The tank hissed weaker and weaker… and fell silent. Empty. The mask no longer gurgled.
He inhaled. The valve sealed, blocking the slime, but that didn't make it easier. If he abandoned his comrade, he might reach safety. With him… absolutely not.
But that would be a poor ending.
Carefully controlling his breathing, he dragged the soldier along. One meter. Two. Ten. Darkness clouded his vision. He squeezed the mask, forcing out a little more air. A few more seconds.
Ringing filled his ears, his legs buckled. The ground, softened by slime, almost felt pleasant to fall on.
But ahead lay more trenches, and there was no chance he could make the last fifty meters. None at all. Impossible. If only he had found the mages faster…
Or maybe?
With an unsteady hand, he drew his revolver and pulled the trigger.
A gunshot cracked through the air.
And just before losing consciousness, he felt straps cutting into his flesh and the ground vanishing beneath him.
********************
Blue-violet light flooded the clearing. A healer bent over the general's body, laid straight on the ground. Nearby lay his protective suit, black smoke rising from it.
"Ghosts fear the light," Til muttered as his first words upon waking.
Ron raised his still glowing hands from the man's chest.
"As I said, my lord, there may be minor brain damage. Though frankly, he hardly used it anyway, otherwise he wouldn't have gone in there… Also, he might have at least thanked the healer."
"Thank you, Ron. Ghosts fear the light!"
I raised a puzzled brow, and he hurried to explain.
"Well, that slime filth is kind of like ghosts... And mages talked about morning too! It must fear the light, I'm sure of it."
"Ah, that. Don't worry, I already figured that out. Any such weapon would need a limiter." I turned toward the green wall, slowly receding under the ultraviolet glow of quartz lamps.
The green muck burned away, turning into black smoke. Poisonous as well, but nowhere near as deadly. Stern worked doggedly, siphoning it into barrels, careful not to capture the green mist with it.
"Oh, alright then," Til said as he got up. "Abyss, my head hurts!"
"Judging by the fact that only two of you returned, things didn't go perfectly? What about the third?"
"Dead… But the mission is accomplished. Losses, yes, but the mages are finished."
"We already knew about the mages. Stern felt it immediately when the barrier on that side collapsed. Unfortunately, we couldn't push this thing back. The fog moves easily, but the slime on the ground—no chance. And it immediately began evaporating into more fog, so all we can do is prepare for morning."
"Prepare?"
I nodded. "Falcon should arrive with the cores. We'll need a large circle and every mage we can gather. By morning this whole mass of fog will turn into a vast heap of black filth. Not nearly as dangerous, but still poisonous. We must gather as much of it as possible."
"Well, I can't help you there, commander. By the way, how's the man I carried back?"
"Perfectly fine," Ron answered for me. "An unconscious person consumes very little oxygen, so he could've lain there for another ten minutes without trouble. But you—in another ten minutes, only my brother could have done something, and you wouldn't have liked it."
"Oh, come on, it would've been fine. Not a single tale I've ever heard ends with the hero dying right at the threshold of salvation."
"Tales aren't told about those who die at the threshold," I remarked. "I hope you're at least satisfied with nearly getting yourself killed for nothing?"
"Not particularly," he admitted.
The flapping of griffon wings overhead made Til wince and clutch his head. Well, maybe it would teach him some sense.
Falcon landed and without ceremony dropped a sack of cores from the griffon's back as though they were potatoes. Sure, they were sturdy enough, but treating something worth thousands of gold with such carelessness was still grating.
I clapped my hands. "Alright, the cores have arrived. Time to begin. We have only a couple of hours until dawn!"
Stern lowered his hands in relief, ceasing to channel smoke into barrels. His joy was premature; as an air mage, he would be the focal point of the ritual circle. Without him in the center, nothing would work.
"I don't understand why we even need to gather it. We could just drown the black smoke with water!" he complained.
"Follow the order and don't argue," I cut him off.
I didn't explain my reasons, though they were compelling. First, bound with water, the toxin would poison the soil—something I didn't need. Second… it might be useful to us as well. I hadn't started this gas war, but I was certainly going to finish it.
Dastan, to his future regret, had no idea how many poisonous gases I could send his way in return.
"My lord, along with the cores they gave me this report. It just arrived at Eagle's Crag," Falcon interrupted my thoughts of mustard gas and phosgene.
I reached out and took the note.
By the blue lamp light, only one short line was visible:
"Espluar has arrived at the port."
Comments
Vuk Stefanovic
Good chappie
LOLZMAN
Some time later Dastan: "huh why do I smell musty hay? Must be my imagination " The king was found dead in his sleep the next moring....
Johan Timmers
Tftc
Robert King
tftc
