Chapter 276: Viri Perditi

Chapter 276: Viri Perditi

Viri Perditi

Lansius

The rain hammered against the thick stone walls, its steady drumming softened into a muffled rhythm that almost felt calming between the sharp cracks of thunder and the long howls of the wind. Lansius, still in his study chamber, could only hope his little one was not frightened by the storm, or it would be another long night. Even with Audrey’s magic, caring for a newborn was a demanding task.

Unexpectedly, despite her claim that she would always be by his side, she rarely accepted help from a nanny or maid. Whenever possible, she was the one tending to the baby.

Lansius found her strong maternal instinct endearing, though he suspected she also treated raising the child as a challenge. Audrey often claimed that caring for the baby was the perfect reason to practice her magic, sometimes joking that the child cried just to see it. Whatever it was, Lansius could not deny she had grown skilled at using her sound barrier. The previous night, he had nearly slept through without hearing a single cry.

He had only woken from a nightmare to find Audrey rocking the baby and pacing the chamber like a sentry on night duty.

For all her might, there was no known magic that could be cast while asleep. Thus, she kept losing rest, yet stubbornly pushed on, insisting that caring for a child was nothing compared to squire duty or the hardships of a hunt.

It was, of course, more pride than truth. Still, Lansius had to admit she was truly strong, not only physically but also mentally.

Thus, he mostly let her be, trusting in her abilities and noting how she often took a quick nap whenever Tanya or Arryn looked after the baby.

Most endearing of all was when she spoke of the great bear, a lullaby about a fearsome beast said to fly, stand as tall as a two-story house, and never be captured, the little one seemed to delight in her soothing voice and would usually calm, at least for a while.

Her blooming maternal qualities, so unexpected from a shield-maiden, and her devotion to their son filled Lansius with a warmth he had never known.

Or perhaps it was gratitude, for in caring for their son, Audrey seemed to have forgotten to train him in full-armored combat.

The thought brought a mirthful smile to his lips until a sudden, blinding flash drew Lansius’ attention to the window. Though it was closed and the curtain drawn, the glass still flared with the light.

Outside, the rain had yet to ease.

Noticing the lull in their work, Margo spoke up promptly. “My Lord, supper is almost ready. Do you wish to dine early?”

“Yes, let us conclude for now.”

Earlier, Lansius had already met with Francisca. Their talk had been brief. After she gave her opinion on how human subordinates might feel about serving under a half-breed, and after Lansius assured her she could step down at any time without penalty, she accepted without hesitation. She even found the offer exciting, eager to learn the ways of the Orange Skalds without the burden of colorful dress or the tedious lessons of dance, flute, and gittern.

Lansius rose and stretched his stiff body. The last battle, and the strain of wielding the Gemstone of Might, still left his muscles sore. Yet that did not stop him from feeling a quiet satisfaction. Reports from his domains across Midlandia buoyed his spirits. None showed major concern. To the surprise of both his staff and himself, the rebellion had erupted only in Canardia, with no other cities declaring their support.

Sir Omin had remarked that this was likely because many nobles had waited to see if the rebels would besiege the city before declaring their allegiance. But when the uprising was crushed in a single night, none dared reveal their hand.

To Lansius, their caution suggested that the wider nobility had little appetite for the cause. Despite uncovering the involvement of forty-six lords, it seemed the majority did not hate him enough to rise against him.

Yet, another possibility existed. The lack of support from other cities might not have been due to reluctance, but rather the consequences of extraordinary secrecy, making it difficult for anyone to realize, consolidate, and react. It was difficult to imagine a movement of such magnitude remaining hidden. More than ten thousand men, perhaps closer to twenty thousand, had been raised, yet not even his Orange Skalds had caught wind of it.

The plan had likely been to strike him down at the outset and trigger a cascade of uprisings. Lansius knew the tactic well. It was a decapitation strike, the very same gamble he had once used against Reginald.

Whoever had devised the scheme was no fool. Lansius could only hope the mastermind was among the noble dead from the last battle. Some identified bodies belonged to wealthy and powerful Houses, proof that the rebellion had been driven not only by ambition but also by distrust of his rule and his Lowlandian army.

"My Lord," Ingrid called in a formal tone as she approached.

"Yes," Lansius replied casually, not wishing to make the exchange overly formal.

"Before My Lord departs for supper, this chamberlain of your Lady humbly requests to learn of your strategy against the Monastery."

Faced with such a formal request, Lansius did not answer at once. He glanced at the polished lacquer of the table beside him, then at his new reclining seat. He exhaled softly before speaking. "I will tighten our blockade of the hill. Until now, we have allowed goods and known grain merchants to pass, but from here on, we block everyone."

"You're trying to starve them?" she asked, calm, almost without emotion. By now, everyone had grown to resent the Monastery.

"It is one of the goals, but it will not be swift. The monastery has fields on the surrounding slopes, with hamlets to supply them with fruit and vegetables. Even if they missed the next harvest, I suspect they have enough stores for the coming winter."

Ingrid nodded. "I have heard the monastery was built like a bastion, with great larders to withstand famine."

"Thus, the strategy is to tighten our grip," Lansius said. "We will keep patrols and build palisades with ditches on the gentler slopes to stop goods from slipping through."

"But it is a vast area," she pointed out. "Individuals can still smuggle supplies."

"I do not fear individual smugglers," Lansius answered. "At best, a group could carry a few bags of grain uphill. Their tracks will be easy to find, and a ditch with barbed wire will deter most. As long as the main routes are sealed, the result is inevitable."

"Pardon my candor, but why do I sense a slight hesitation, as if you do not want to assault the monastery?"

Still reclined, Lansius stroked his chin. "You are correct. Mostly, I do not want to slaughter so many of them. It might provoke a strong and unwanted reaction. Our position here is unsteady, our roots barely in the soil. Right now, the Living Saint has overplayed her hand, panicked the people, and become the enemy of everyone. But if we overplay ours, the people might turn against us."

Ingrid furrowed her brows. "I highly doubt the people would stand against you. They know what the Monastery has done, and they would understand you have every right to seek retribution."

"I wish it were that simple," Lansius said.

"I might be overstepping my place, but if My Lord wished it, one of your vassals or even the Shogunate could lead the retribution. That way, you could claim a clean hand."

Lansius mulled over her words. "That might work. I will consider it. But in the meantime, let us first focus on containment."

Ingrid bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement.

...

There should still have been some light left, but the downpour had turned the sky black, so the corridor lanterns were already lit early. Lansius was walking with his entourage when two guards appeared at the far end, escorting a man in coarse light-blue wool, with a thick belt at his waist and sleeves creased from being rolled high for work. It was what most would call a craftsman’s attire.

"My Lord," the escorting guards greeted, while two of Lansius’ own stepped forward, raising a hand for the others to slow and halt.

Lansius recognized the craftsman’s face. "Let him through," he ordered, stopping.

"My Lord," said the craftsman, a little short and chubby, though with strong arms.

"I was not expecting you today, Meister. Care to join me for supper?" Lansius offered.

"Gladly, My Lord. Then I shall be brief." He opened his purse, knowing that even with such an invitation, he would likely be seated far at the back, with little chance to speak.

As he fished inside, one of the guards stepped in and seized the purse.

"Please, allow me," the guard explained, opening it slowly and inspecting the contents. His brow lifted in surprise. "A lump of black," he muttered, showing it to another.

"Charcoal?" the second guard remarked.

"Let me have it." Lansius took the black lump and held it up to the lantern fixed to the plastered wall.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

"It's dirty, My Lord," the craftsman warned softly.

"No matter. My squire carries a cloth to clean my hands," Lansius replied, still examining the object. He brought it to his nose, sniffed, and nodded, satisfied not to catch the stench of rotten egg that would betray sulfur. "Bring me another," he instructed. One of the guards fetched a second lump.

With both in hand, Lansius struck them together. A clear metallic ring sounded, sharp and unexpected. His face lit with awe.

The craftsman smiled and exclaimed, "It is truly as you told us. It can be done." His voice carried raw excitement.

"How did you manage it?" Lansius asked.

"After reading your instructions and trying several times, we rebuilt the beehive oven, adding another layer to seal as much air as we could. We even made a new door and a small window to better control the draft."

"Magnificent," Lansius said, prompting his guards and entourage to exchange glances at the seemingly dull black lump. Then he turned serious. "Where did the source come from?"

"It is a common coal, My Lord, found in many places. I cannot say from where, but it surely comes from Midlandia. The people call it the poor man’s firewood."

"Poor man’s firewood?"

"Yes, My Lord. It burns with heavy smoke and spoils the taste of food, so it is used only for heating in winter."

Lansius nodded. Even good coal burned thicker and dirtier than firewood or charcoal, leaving soot on walls and pots. No wonder it found little use. Even smiths shunned it, for its impurities ruined the iron.

But with the right process, good coal could be transformed into something of worth. And now they had found it. "And how does it burn? Have you tested it?" Lansius asked.

"It burns as we hoped. No foul stench and little soot." The craftsman's eyes lit up as he reached into his pocket, then hesitated, glancing at the guards.

One of them signaled for him to continue, unwilling to interrupt their Lord, who was clearly intrigued.

The craftsman drew out a linen wrapping. Inside lay a small iron piece, the size of a baby’s fist, plainly cast in a mold. Lansius recognized it at once: crude iron, or better known in his world as pig iron.

Lansius took it in hand, weighing it, turning it beneath the lantern’s glow. Its surface gleamed faintly, smooth in places yet marked with tiny pits that betrayed its brittle nature. "This," he declared, "will be a strong foundation for our future."

***

Rebels' Camp

The Captain of the rebel force turned from his staff, who sat around the table on folding chairs of the kind favored by travelling nobles. For the night, they had moved from a field tent into a proper command tent. His aides had worked well to prepare it in the rain, and he considered rewarding them. As leader of the warband, he had the power to do so. He thought of wine, though most of it was near rancid, for it was hard to keep such drink from spoiling. He considered giving money, but feared they might save enough and abandon him once they reached the monastery. And it was not as if he had much to spare.

The baggage train was filled with grain and food, but low on silver. So, he thought of spiced wine, but that was too fine for youngsters. Besides, it would only leave them drunk, and he needed his servants sharp at his side.

He relished their constant service. It was what he had longed for ever since his grandfather had spoken of their House’s past greatness, when they had servants and maids to indulge their every whim, before a single mistake had driven the court to shun their name along with its wealth and prestige.

A bitter snort and murmurs of agreement passed beneath the tent, but the Captain kept his gaze fixed on the rain and the night sky. Whether from the storm or the ale, the mood turned melancholy, and his staff traded stories of their lives and the reasons they had joined the rebellion.

“What of your family, Commander? Did they also suffer injustice at the hands of House Bengrieve?” one of the men asked.

The Captain blinked slowly. His eyes were sullen and heavy, though no one said it aloud. His thoughts came sluggish, dulled by fatigue, yet his voice was steady enough. “Indeed. A great injustice has befallen my House.”

“Then share the burden with us, Commander,” another urged.

He wanted to speak, but his mind was too fogged. He tried, then gave up and waved them off. "It was just a stupid clerical error, but punished unjustly."

His staff nodded. One of them said, "We already have plenty of drink. Let us not burden the commander with old wounds."

The Captain felt a flicker of gratitude for his men. Forcing himself to rise, he pushed to his feet, prompting the others to stand as well. His knees felt weak, but he managed. "Then I will retire first."

"Of course, Commander. We shall need you in the morning, when the sky is kinder."

He retreated to his chamber and fell asleep with ease.

The day was not yet late, but they were full from their meal. After days of marching, poorly trained and with nothing else to do, many chose to sleep early.

His aide, still soaked through despite the woolen coat he wore, pulled a blanket over the Captain. Only then did the tent grow quiet as the staff too, retired, some on folding beds to keep off the cold. There were not enough to go around, so one man simply lay across the table.

The aide sighed softly. With only a dull-looking lantern to guide him, he crept to his corner behind a canvas partition. Only when the captain slept could he care for himself. From a small leather bag, he drew his spare clothes, which were yesterday’s garments, stiff and foul from four days of marching. There had been time for laundry, but the captain was relentless, burdening the staff with so many errands that none had managed to clean their own gear.

He did not need to sniff the tunic to know it stank, yet it was dry. Without hesitation, he put it on and hung his wet clothes near a seam in the tent wall, hoping the wind would dry them enough to wear the next day. Then he sat upon a chest that held his master’s spare attire. He wished he could take one piece, knowing they were clean and comfortable.

The rebellion had been a misery for all but the nobles and their close cronies.

The victories and promises of glory now rang hollow. Many had died, many more had deserted, and yet for an orphaned youth with nowhere else to go, this was all he had.

“Get through this,” he told himself, aspiring to become an esquire like his grandfather. He had fought hard to reach this post, outsmarting rivals and stepping over them to seize it. He had risen from obscurity to become the captain’s personal aide, not by diligence alone but by wit, cunning, and an eye for opportunity.

“Just hang in there,” he whispered again, closing his eyes as his master’s snores filled the tent.

He despised the Captain. He had always dreamed of serving a man worthy of devotion, and he had believed the monastery’s army would be different from the old nobility. But the Captain, though of fallen nobility, proved to be far worse. He was petty, demanding to the bone, and treated his aides as little more than slaves to his whims. Only now did the aide realize, ironically, that those with newfound power were often the cruelest.

The highborn, at least, were raised to treat their servants with a measure of fairness, but men like the Captain, who clawed their way up the ladder, grew haughty over their achievements and treated those beneath them with contempt.

“Aide!” a voice suddenly barked, startling him.

“Yes, master.” He seized his lantern and rushed to his master’s side.

Inside, nothing seemed amiss. But the Captain had risen and, without looking, said, “Change my clothes and the bedding.”

Only then did the aide catch the stench of urine, and with a heavy heart, he replied, “Yes, master.”

Slowly, he took down the soiled clothes and helped him change.

He had barely finished when the Captain snapped, “Quickly, the bed,” speaking as though the aide had an extra set of hands.

“Yes,” the aide answered weakly, though hatred burned inside him. The Captain had forgotten to relieve himself before sleep and left a stinking mess that was now his burden.

He wanted to douse the place with buckets of water, but that would only anger his master. So he took what rags he had and cleaned the mess, then replaced the thick linen on the folding bed with the only spare left. After painfully tying the knots and smoothing it down, the Captain muttered, “Do not let the canvas or blanket reek. Clean them before you sleep.”

The Captain lay back on the fresh bedding while the aide silently ground his teeth.

To clean the canvas bed and blankets would take at least an hour, and without the heat of a bonfire, they would stay damp and stink by morning. Moreover, his fingers and limbs already ached from raising the command tent in the rain, and now this, just before sleep. It would be a lie to say he had not thought of doing his master some harm.

Suppressing the thought, he rolled up the soiled blanket and canvas and left the chamber. He needed a good record, and if he could satisfy the Captain, with luck, he might one day find a different master.

In the dim light, he changed again, unwilling to wet his only dry clothes with the filthy laundry, then stepped outside to fetch a large bucket for cleaning.

"Aide!"

The master called him again. "Yes, master," he rushed back.

Inside, the Captain muttered from his bed, "Find the apothecary. I need some of his incense to sleep."

His heart sank. He had not seen the apothecary since the rain, and to find him would mean searching from tent to tent. It was an abysmal prospect, and he still had work to finish. "He left a box for tomorrow. It will be faster if I burn it for you now, master," he offered, hoping to escape more work.

"No, it is a delicate thing. Go find him." The Captain’s tone carried clear impatience.

"Yes, master..." The aide knew if he argued further, it would only prolong his misery. He returned to his place, pulled on his damp wool coat, and left, not without trampling and kicking his master’s soiled laundry for good measure.

Two guards saw him leave and grinned. "More work for you, boy?"

"What a hardworking youth. Can you also do my laundry tomorrow?" another added.

The aide gave them no satisfaction. He ignored their words and stepped into the drizzle, muttering curses under his breath. The camp lay hushed in the wet gloom, lanterns faint inside a few tents. The ground was soft and muddy. He could have called on the other aides for help, but rivalry ran deep, and none would lift a finger unless ordered by ranking officers. Thus, he often worked alone.

He had barely moved toward a ten-man tent, the largest size they had, when he heard something crush in the distance, followed by short, stifled shrieks drowned beneath a clap of thunder. He froze, eyes straining into the dark, but saw nothing.

“What was that?” a guard called out from his tent some distance away.

“Some fool who doesn’t know how to raise a tent,” another answered with a snort.

A flash lit the camp, revealing nothing unusual. All seemed calm until another cry rang out, sharp and sudden, then was muffled into silence.

“Something is happening. Wake the others,” the first guard said. At once, the guard tent stirred, lanterns flaring to life.

“Where is the night patrol? This had better be something,” a firmer voice demanded.

"It's from the east," another officer muttered in displeasure, his lantern swaying. "Could be reinforcements."

“A mistake, perhaps?” said an officer wearing a sallet, his confusion plain.

Thunder rolled again.

“The lord has forces blocking the monastery, does he not?” one asked as he reached for his arms.

“Small. We are much bigger,” the authoritative voice replied as more men stumbled from their tents. At last, he gave an order. “Get more men around the command tent and the baggage train.”

As the guards were still mustering and uncertain, the aide caught a low, rhythmic thudding that cut through the drizzle. He strained to place it, but before he could, a terrible screech ripped across the camp.

From the shadows burst towering shapes, taller than horses and faster than men. Great beasts of unknown origin smashed through tents, crushing canvas and bodies alike. Their riders, hidden by the dark and rain, loosed volleys of bolts with uncanny speed, each shot feeding the panic as the camp dissolved into chaos.

The guards tried to rally. A hasty line took shape, tens of men and growing, their spears glinting as thunder lit the field. In that brief glare, they saw dozens of gigantic beasts advancing.

One of the largest bellowed a deep, rumbling sound, as if laughing at them. “Ho-ho-ho-honk...”

“It is the Black Lord’s giant duck!” someone cried.

“Man-eater!” another shouted in desperation.

Nervous glances flickered along the line, but the guards held their spears tight, trying to keep the wall. Behind them, the aide ran, mud sucking at his boots as he forced his legs to move. He raced for his master’s side, but it was already too late.

Three creatures crashed into the command tent, tearing through canvas and searching for prey. Something in the air had driven them into a frenzy, making them brutal beyond reason. Many of the guards around it fell before they could even reach for a weapon, and then it was the staff’s turn. The beasts moved with predatory speed, smashing men aside with their massive bills, while their riders loosed murderous bolts at anyone still standing.

But it was not all.

“More to the left!” a voice cried, shrill with panic.

“I saw two at our rear!” another shouted, his voice breaking with fear.

The guards at last realized they were nearly surrounded, with ducks closing in from every side. “Stay strong!” their officer bellowed.

But it was the beasts who answered. They rushed the line, heavy bodies and iron legs trampling men into the mud, while their long necks and crushing bills snapped and flung even men in ringmail like strawmen. No shield could stop them. Their gambeson-like coverings over breast and neck dulled every spear thrust.

“HONK!” The sound boomed like a dozen horns at once, drowning every scream and cry of pain.

The aide could only watch, his legs trembling. And then from the command tent came a familiar voice, screaming as the body was flung into the air before being caught by a giant duck. They toyed with him like children with dolls, tossing him from place to place.

It was brutal and humiliating. Fighting still raged in many corners of the camp, yet the aide could not resist a smirk.

In that bleak place, with drizzle soaking his hair and face, running cold down his neck, he found a semblance of justice.

All around him, the camp dissolved into horror as the Lord’s heavy cavalry thundered down upon them.

***