Aleks Kotov
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Vol 7, Chapter 8
🕑 Added 2025-09-03 17:34:10 +0000 UTC"Two tunnels destroyed."
A belated third explosion rumbled.
"Three," Til corrected, shielding himself from the falling dirt.
"Casualties?" I asked first of all.
"No reports yet, but there shouldn't be any," he said, brushing a weed off his helmet, then added, "Unless someone bungled the explosives."
All three blasts had been set close to the our own positions. Dragging barrels deep into burning tunnels would've been madness, but the shockwaves did the job well enough. Most of the tunnels were destroyed.
"Just in case, send—"
"Dragon!" a lookout's frantic cry cut me off.
Searchlights swung toward the night sky. They swept the clouds, again and again catching glimpses of a scaly monster through the shroud of darkness.
I snatched a spyglass from my belt. Too far.
The dragon rose above the clouds again and again, slipping away from the beams. Whenever a wing or talon was caught by light, it climbed higher, only to dive back down in a new spot.
Behind me the hiss of the steam machine—our hastily patched balloon being filled with hot air for launch. Every eye mattered.
The anti-air crews waited for my signal, ready for the dragon to come closer. The loaders stood nearby, holding fresh shells already set with pre-measured fuses.
Finally, a beam lingered long enough to reveal someone riding it. Who else could it be but the Duke? I lowered the glass.
So, the First had indeed been visiting the camp under cover of night. Couldn't resist. Wanted to personally observe the tunnel assault. Damn, I should've shelled the camp…
Clicking my tongue in frustration, I raised the glass again, unease crawling down my spine.
Why wasn't the dragon leaving?
For minutes it circled, far enough to keep us from wasting shells, but close enough to irritate and draw all eyes.
"Turn the searchlights on the camp! Now!"
Orders passed down the chain, reaching the lighting crews swiftly. One by one, the beams dropped from the sky, turning night into day.
Three trebuchets were being readied for launch, workers bustling while the chimeras strained to raise the heavy counterweights. We had long seen the Duke building siege engines, but we let the gentlemen waste their strength in vain.
Well, it seemed time to destroy them!
Have the artillery smash them to splinters. Immediately," I ordered.
Once was enough, when griffons dropped kerosene on us. I had no intention of giving them a second chance to roast our heels.
The gun thundered. The ranging shot overshot the target by a hundred meters, exploding and lighting the sky brighter than any searchlight.
Ordinary enough… if not for the shield that flared up from the fragments, a transparent dome covering the trebuchets.
"He did turn to the mages… It won't help," I muttered, watching more shells strike near the wooden machines.
The shield collapsed as soon as a full shell, not mere fragments, slammed into it. The blast shattered supports, scattered workers. Red-hot iron bit into thick beams, cut ropes. The counterweight crashed down, boards splintered, stones rained across the ground.
The battery kept firing. Shells spun down rifled barrels. Oil heated in the recoil devices, containing the kick and keeping the guns from leaping meters back. Piston breeches smoked, thrown open for the next load. Deafened gunners cracked open crates of fresh rounds and powder charges.
Then suddenly, everything stopped. The burning wreckage of the trebuchets was smothered in a thick, greenish fog. A few late shells slammed into it and vanished as if into nothing. Only a brief flash, lighting the poisonous haze, showed the fuses had gone off. The green filth didn't scatter like smoke—it shuddered unnaturally, then kept crawling forward. The artillery fell silent, waiting for orders. The searchlights struck a wall; their beams could not pierce it. The green pool of mist quickly grew into a sea.
The wounded were the first to be caught—those still standing had already fled from the siege engines. The green pall swallowed them whole, gaining speed with every body consumed. It filled every depression, spreading into a smooth, level carpet.
Tendrils of fog crept through the camp, rising higher, flowing faster. They licked at a sluggish soldier's feet. He tried to shake it off, but shed only slick, bleeding, green-tinged flesh. His other leg buckled, and he vanished into the mist. With his body devoured, the haze surged forward, seizing another ten meters and sweeping over his comrade. A second later a soldier burst from the green silence, screaming. From his greening body the oily vapor peeled away in strips. After a few stumbling steps, he fell flat, dissolving across the ground. His chainmail sagged empty, and a dense, green cloud rose from the corpse. In moments the fog blanketed everything.
Panic seized the camp. Under the searchlights men scattered. The fools who dove underground sealed their fate.
The foul green stuff crept into every hollow first.
Within minutes, the beams illuminated nothing but a fog bank taller than a dragon, and a few survivors who had escaped only because they had been at the fringes of the camp.
Green tendrils reached for them, but struck something unseen.
The fog churned in place, as though deciding what to do next. Then it rose and rolled toward the hills. Rolled towards us.
"Where the hell is Stern?!" I shouted.
"Already called, commander. He'll be here soon!"
The fog crept forward, yard by yard, reclaiming the ground between our defenses and the enemy camp. Slow but relentless.
"Damnation! Artillery, fire in front of it! Directly in front!"
The cannons thundered, shells bursting ahead of the haze… but the shockwaves couldn't scatter the wall, only shudder it slightly. A second later the formless monster re-formed with ease, continuing its inexorable advance.
Hooves clattered. Stern leapt from a wagon, clad only in trousers, half-naked girls tumbling after him. Looking closer, I realized—they were Wind's former apprentices. To hell with reprimands, later.
"Blow that filth away from our lines!"
"Fine, fine…" the air mage fussed.
A gale struck our backs, rushing at the green haze that had already crossed half the field.
No reaction. The wind simply passed through it.
Should've guessed, given how little the shell blasts had affected it.
"Not… working?" Stern said, bewildered. As if I hadn't seen it myself, damn him.
"Sound the retreat! Pull back from the lines!"
The trumpet blared. Soldiers hastily gathered weapons, abandoning trenches, trying not to look back at the oncoming green wave.
When it reached corpses from the last assault, it surged forward suddenly, crawling into our forward positions. Luckily it clearly disliked climbing uphill. Unfortunately, that meant it would pour through the valley between the hills.
I turned to the mages.
"Go to the pass, try to block this thing's path. Any of you wield water? Try calling rain, pin it to the ground. Fire? None? Damn, summon Meister Orin…"
Leaving one apprentice to summon rain, I turned back to the haze. After its surge, it had slowed again, licking hungrily at the foot of the hill.
"Astaroth, it's clearly magical. Can you—"
"Impossible. You cannot simply drain power from a potion."
"All right, what about just sending this filth straight into the Abyss with a portal?"
"Immanis magnitudine… It would take thousands of sacrifices. And the Lords would not welcome such a gift… nor would I." His growl was menacing, but I waved it off.
"We need samples for analysis…"
Looking around, I reshaped the barrel of a casemate gun into a steel pole with a scoop on the end, then climbed closer to the haze.
It rose to meet me, damn it. I thrust the scoop into the oily murk and forced it closed with my Source. Good, a sample…
Knock-knock-knock. From below. Someone was pounding on the steel door that sealed the trench from the underground tunnels.
Shit! The tunnels. Of course the fog had gone there first.
I ripped the steel door open with a surge of magic, half my reserve gone at once. A flamethrower trooper tumbled into the trench, followed by the flood of fog. Cursing, I grabbed him by the steel tank with my Gift, dragging him upward, racing the fog. Оh, and the scoop—yes!
I pulled it back to me before moving on.
The fog-river was already flowing through the pass. On the horizon, a lone light—train arriving.
The soldiers retreated in order toward the station. The mages tried to fight the fog, but even from here it was clear their efforts failed.
"My lord!" Soldiers ran up. From the fallen flametrooper's body rose a green vapor; his whole uniform, tank and all, was smeared in slime.
"He's still alive. Wash that filth off him. Quick!"
A bucket of water was dumped on him. No effect.
Even the rising green vapor didn't abate. The water passed right through it.
"Damn. So… so…" I muttered, pacing. Stripping him was impossible—the fog would touch bare skin and he was finished. "Maybe scrape it off with dirt… No. Milk! Do we have milk?"
The soldiers glanced at one another. I cursed, remembered the guns, and stretched a hand toward the artillery. The newly-forged cannon we'd only just built with Pit's men tore free, skidding across the ground toward me. Faster!
The massive cannon plowed earth, tumbled, then came to rest. With one pulse I ripped out the recoil device and forced it to burst. Liters of oil drenched the body, and the green filth finally reacted as it should. The oil soaked it up, staining green. I hoisted the flametrooper by his balloon, shook him to fling away the oily remains.
I reshaped my sword into iron gauntlets and struggled to strip off his mask. Manipulating fingers with magic was clumsy, I was already regretting not simply making hooks. Spitting in frustration, I sliced the rubber and finally tore it free.
The soldier still lived, unconscious. I called for a healer, then studied the mask. Unscrewed the filter.
Hm. Half clogged with green slime. The stuff had blocked the air, but hadn't gotten further, giving the man perhaps a dozen extra breaths before carbon dioxide poisoned him. I checked his uniform—heavy canvas, rubber boots, padded lining. It seemed this alchemical filth could not easily seep through materials, stopped even by that.
I turned to the cannon and, without a shred of regret, reshaped it into a cube to imprison the green-tainted oil.
I shook the iron gauntlets from my hands, ordered soldiers to bring me a couple of flametrooper kits, and hurried to the pass between the hills where the mages stood—among them the gray head of the alchemist.
My instincts hammered: under no circumstances could we burn this filth.
"Stop!"
The meister turned, lowering a hand already lit with flame.
"My lord? We've tried everything—wind, rain, nothing has any effect. We have no other options."
"Which is why we will not burn it. This filth was clearly made to counter mages. Anyone who sees it will first try to blow it away with wind or pin it with rain. Neither worked. I'm certain it's protected from fire as well. Meister Orin, do you have a glass vial?"
Awkwardly tugging at his beard, he pulled a crimson potion from his robe pocket. With a regretful look, he poured it onto the ground.
"What was that?" I raised an eyebrow. Strangely, all of Randal's knowledge could not tell me what it had been.
"Oh, that… A potion of potency. Not for me, no! Someone asked me to brew it, just leftovers." He added hastily, catching the looks around him.
"Just be quiet, old man," Stern said pointedly.
The apprentices exchanged confused glances.
"Enough. Not the time," I cut in, taking the vial.
The sample from the battered scoop slid into it, the stopper snapped shut. At the bottom of the improvised test tube formed green slime. Above it—a thick haze… or perhaps not haze. It seemed its base was not liquid, but something oily and viscous. What do you call slime-fog?
And once again, emptiness. Even with vast knowledge I could not say what it was. But those unseen walls it smashed against… Hm.
"Have you tried stopping it with ordinary shields?" I asked the gathered mages.
They shook their heads.
"No, it's fog, it would just pass through."
"Try," I ordered, still studying the vial. I thought I could recognize some of the ingredients… and moreover, they all seemed to grow within the Kingdom.
Stern shrugged and cast a shield. General magic was unpopular with elementals, consuming far more energy for weaker effect.
The fog's tendrils pressed against it like an invisible wall.
"Oh!" Stern exclaimed in surprise, but suddenly the shield shattered with a crash, making him curse in pain. The fog lunged forward, covering another ten meters at once and forcing us to retreat in disarray, none too gloriously. Regaining his focus, Stern raised another shield.
"There… there's someone! Someone is controlling it. I felt pressure from shields on the other side. Over there!" he stammered, straining to hold it.
"Where?"
"Somewhere in the Duke's camp. Far. They're strong, but with distance I can hold… maybe."
I turned to the guns, already threatened by the fog.
"If we kill them, can you drive this filth back?"
"I think so… but not with shells, no! My shield won't withstand an explosion."
"But they're in the camp… ah, forget it," I muttered as the fog surged, swallowing the artillery positions. Clearly the enemy understood the danger as well.
"The train has departed, commander. Personnel loaded… but we had to pack the cargo wagons full," Til reported.
"Yes, good…" I answered absently.
"What of the aerostat? Fog below, we can't bring them down."
I raised my head. Another problem. But so what? The fog couldn't reach them, not unless their burner ran out of kerosene.
"Send a raven. Tell them to wait. Once we deal with this thing, we'll bring them down… in the worst case, they cut the line and drift away."
"It will be done," Til nodded.
"My lord, your kits."
Three crates of equipment were laid before me. Empty fuel tanks, masks, boots, canvas uniforms. At first I had thought to give them to the mages, so they would risk less while near the fog that could "jump" at any moment. But given the situation…
I hefted a tank. Sturdy. Who said it had to be used only for fuel? With some adjustments…
The shatter of breaking glass made me flinch. Whirling around, I saw the mages scattering from a bright cloud of pale green vapor. Shards of glass lay nearby.
A panicked Orin waved his hands, chilling the air until the vapor settled into familiar slimy droplets. Orin collapsed to the ground, eyes wide.
"What in the devil is going on?"
"Oh… it seems you were right, my lord. It mustn't be heated…" the alchemist muttered, bewildered, staring at his hands. "And I think I realized something important—heating isn't the opposite of cooling. It's just a difference of speed…"
I sighed, hiding my face in my palm. The old man was incorrigible. One day his urge to stick fingers into sockets would end not in revelation, but rigor mortis.
The earth adept, casting an indignant glance at the muttering elder, gathered the slime into a stone jar before it turned back to haze.
Crisis over, it seemed.
I hefted a fuel tank, detaching the flamethrower. Connect it to the filter… No, not directly, the pressure must be lowered. Then it might work.
"Bring more rubber. Meister Orin, are you all right?"
"More than all right. I feel… younger," he said energetically.
"Good. We'll need to melt rubber and coat a man with it without burning him. Can you manage?"
""Oh, no problem. Sounds not much harder than harmless fire, and I—""
I cut him off, turning to the soldiers.
"I need three volunteers. Somewhere in that fog, in the enemy camp, mages are hiding. We need to pass through that filth and kill them."
Til raised his hand.
"Go ahead, ask your question," I permitted.
"It's not a question. I'm going."
"Absolutely not," I frowned.
The very 'good' idea! Sending the commander of an entire army into a job any soldier could do as well was madness.
"Then I resign," he said simply.
For the second time that day my palm met my forehead. He and Orin must have conspired to drive me insane.
"Just tell me why."
"A commander must set an example. If he won't face danger, who will follow him? I'm sure you'd want to do the same."
I looked at the fog. Mmm, no. Surprisingly, for the first time in a long while, I felt no urge to leap headfirst into danger.
Not even because we would have to crawl across fields of poisonous haze with nothing but a crude prototype breathing apparatus. No.
As the only competent alchemist here, it was my job to study this filth, not chase enemy mages like a hedgehog in the fog.
I turned back to Til. His eyes burned with stubborn, unshakable determination to play the hero.
I sighed.
"No medals for this, don't expect any."
"At least it'll make a fine story for the grandchildren," he shrugged.
"If you die, I'll have a statue made of you in a jester's cap. Every recruit will point and say how dangerous it is to grow conceited and shirk duty for thrills.."
"Deal."
I waved my hand in defeat. I didn't want to order him, and arguing wasted time.
"Fine, damn you. Take off the cuirass—you won't need it. And remember, watch your step. Damage the suit, and you're finished..."
"Thank you," he bowed with satisfaction.
"Why hasn't anyone brought the rubber yet? And another vial—now! Move!" I barked.
Orin lit more flames, letting the earth adept gather the glass shards. Minutes later she handed me a vial of the same shape as the broken one… but half the size.
"It'll do…" I muttered, picking up the metal scoop again.
Even killing the mages wouldn't end this thing.
The slime haze was clearly a specialized weapon. Its ability to kill quickly, consume bodies, and grow larger… apocalyptic, if you thought about it. What would stop it from destroying all life? And who would use such a weapon—wasn't it suicide?
Which meant it had to have a weakness. Something simple, something to halt it, keep it from spreading endlessly. A limiter.
I had to find it. Activated charcoal likely wouldn't do… but then again, who knows?
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